Playing With Minds
by seclinalunica
Summary: What happened on the Green Mile before John Coffey? Set in 1930, a new prisoner confronts the guards at E block; but they do not realize how dangerous the man is to their hearts and minds. Follow the guards as they overcome each obstacle with the dangerous convict, and their personal lives. Paul, Brutus, Harry, Dean and OC. Rated M for language and T for violence. HIATUS!
1. The Test

**AN: Love the Green Mile movie, and the book, so I'm writing a Fanfction on it. **

**First I need to clarify a few things:**

**1\. I'm basing the story on the book timeline, so Coffey was 1932. The story begins in 1930; two years before Coffey.**

**2\. This is an M rated Fanfiction for violence and swearing. **

**3\. And I do not own the Green Mile. **

**Please read and review. I would love your input. **

**Thank you my lovelies! **

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Chapter 1: The Test

Another hot summer's day meant another long and dreadful shift at the Green Mile. The morning shift had only started, and the heat was starting to seep through the several cracks in the walls, and windows. The shades in the office couldn't even keep the sunlight from engulfing darkness. Not everyone had shown into work that morning, Paul Edgecomb walked the mile, the green tiled floor, checking each prisoner as he went by; making sure that he was keeping the peace. The young pup Dean Stanton was to show up in approximately half an hour, and Harry Terwilliger, the main guard at the desk called in saying that he was coming in late; lunch time was Paul's best bet on when he'd show up. Then there was Brutus Howell. A big man, a strong man, yet he wouldn't hurt a fly unless necessary. They gave him the nickname "Brutal" for pure sarcasm and irony, but Brutus didn't seem to mind. It had a little ring to it; curled off of the tongue slightly. Brutal wasn't going to arrive until dusk; he had what they called, "the grave yard shift."

Paul strolled up and down the cells, glancing at each prisoner as he walked by; both were still sleeping. There were two prisoners at that time. Alexander Smith was an inmate who came in almost two weeks past. He was short, slim, and quick. Most of his physical features presented the stereotypical look of the average serial killer. He had raped and murdered his wife; he ran after he committed his crime. Before he was caught, he pulled a knife on two men at a market. It didn't take long for the police to show up, and in the blink of an eye, he was found guilty at trial and was sent to Cold Mountain prison; which was awfully quiet. They presided in E block; also known as Death Row. The other prisoner was an older gentleman; he obtained glasses, white hair, and a pair of chocolate brown eyes. He was an average sized man, yet strongly built. His conviction was the gruesome murder of his so called gay lover, of who he later resented, and while still alive after multiple stab wounds, found himself watching Harry Winstel eating his inner organs; he died slowly. It made Paul's blood curdle. It didn't matter though, considering that Harry was to be killed in less than a few days. Rehearsal started in the late afternoon of the second day, and Paul, being the perfectionist that he always was, wanted to make sure that the execution was going to be efficient and successful without any complications. He wasn't too worried, considering that Brutal was going to be running the show. Paul glared at Harry, trapped in his cell. He didn't like to call him Harry, none of them; it was too damn close to their own Harry. "Winnie" was his nickname, short for his last. At first the inmate didn't appreciate it, but as time passed, he warmed up to it.

Paul inched closer towards Winnie's cell, finding him lying on his bed, his eyes wide open. Paul found it disgusting, but it wasn't Winnie's fault that the man couldn't sleep with his eyes damned shut. Paul could hear the loud snoring coming from both inmates, and he really wanted to snap, and tell them to shut the hell up! He'd wanted to for the longest time. Large amounts of energy were being bottled up inside all of the guards on E block, and there was only one way to let those emotions out. The reason for the madness is that E block had been extremely quiet lately, so there was no action thrust upon them. There were no brutal fights between inmates or guards for that matter, and it had been like that for the past few months. Brutus and Paul often arm wrestled, although Brutal always won, it attempted to draw away all of that energy; and usually it was worth a try. Paul glanced at his watch and deemed Dean late, about thirty seconds ago. It wasn't long before a young, sharp featured man burst through the door. He placed his belongings aside, and reached for his hat; placing it on his head with a firm grip.

The corner of Paul's mouth stretched. "You are late Dean."

Dean shook his head. "I'm sorry sir on my part. Both my kids came down with a fever this morning and wouldn't stop puking. My wife was doing her part as I was doing mine." He rubbed the back of his head. "It won't happen again Paul."

Paul nodded with satisfaction, followed by a slight chuckle. "I'm just pulling your leg, son. But it better not happen again; kids puking or not. When my kids were young tots, they were puking all over, and yet I still managed to get to work on time."

Dean nodded quickly. "Yes sir."

Paul wandered to the desk, and placed the pencil and clipboard on top. He leaned against it. "There's some cleaning to do, think we can get it done before lunch?"

"Depends on it sir," Dean said. "What sort of cleaning did you have in mind?" he questioned while fixing his tie.

Paul shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I'm betting that the office needs to be cleaned, drastically," Paul suggested as he stared at the light above him. "And I'm betting that the lights need dusting."

The young officer frowned. "Awe, come on Paul! You know I hate heights."

Paul started to walk away. "Well, do you have anything else in mind instead of just playing cards?" He sauntered around the desk, glaring at a piece of paper. "But first, the prisoners have to eat."

Suddenly, a click was heard, and the back door opened. An older officer, about the age of forty five walked into death row, with a mug, and several folders occupied in his hands. He was shorter than the rest, about the height of Dean, 5''9 or so, and he obtained gray hair; a pair of glasses rested on the bridge of his nose. He glanced at Paul and Dean before him. Paul obtained a confused look upon his face. "Harry, you are a little early. You said you would be here at noon."

Harry slowly walked towards the desk, and placed the numerous folders carefully on top. He opened one, and drew his eyes away from his Supervisor. "Well, I must have lied then."

Dean grew curious. "What you got there?"

"Paperwork," Harry quickly replied, "paperwork for us, the other cell mates, and a new convict."

Paul tilted his head slightly, "A new one?"

Harry nodded. Both Paul and Dean noticed that Harry was solemn this morning; he never smiled on a regular basis, but something was on his mind. It might be a little early to ask what. "What's his name?"

Harry raised both of his eyebrows. "The Warden hasn't given me his profile yet, so I do not know, but he wants something from us."

"Us?" questioned Dean.

"Well, I did say that there was some paperwork that we guards have to complete." Harry paused before continuing. "It's what Hal likes to call a questionnaire?" Terwilliger tossed a large booklet towards Paul without warning. "Look at it. It is total bullshit."

Paul stared at the front cover of the booklet, and opened the first page. It obtained small fine print regarding the rules and regulations of both the guard's main duties and the questionnaire. He continued to flip through the occurring pages, and noticed that most of them obtained a question and four possible answers. It was a multiple choice test.

"Why is it such bullshit, Harry?" Paul rolled the booklet, and handed it into the hands of Dean.

"Are you kidding me?" Harry slouched over, slurring his words. "This questionnaire is based upon our jobs. They doubt, thinking that we aren't pulling our own weight."

Dean quickly scanned each page in the questionnaire. "Yeah, that's bull."

Paul cleared his throat, "So what else with this questionnaire?" He stared at Harry, putting on the pressure of a quick, yet decent answer. The older officer was disgusted with the situation.

"Paul, we aren't the only ones taking this test…the prisoners are too."

The boss' eyes grew wide.

"Shit," murmured Dean.

Harry shakily took the glasses away from his face, and gently placed them on the desk. He wiped his forehead. "Sir, one wrong answer, and we lose our jobs. There hasn't been much excitement lately, and I guess that it what is concerning them."

"When does it have to be done by?" Paul stood beside Harry, glancing at the stack of papers on the desk.

"Tomorrow," Harry replied, placing his thumbs between his belt and coat. "If we refuse to take the test, they take that into account as unacceptable behavior." Harry sat himself down at the desk, and looked up towards Paul and Dean. His voice cracked. "I'm sorry sir, but I think you should check your bank account at the end of the day."

"Why?" Dean quickly asked with concern. Obviously with a young family, there was a right to be anxious about money.

"You heard on the radio, the stock market crashed," Harry explained. "I checked my accounts, and in less than a week, BAM!" Harry slammed his hand against the table, causing both Paul and Dean to flinch. A tingle ran up his shoulder. "Two hundred and forty seven dollars was withdrawn from my accounts, without my consent."

There was an awkward silence before Harry spoke again. "It is 1930; these are now hard times. We cannot afford to lose our jobs, because if we do, any of us could be homeless. The last thing any of us at Cold Mountain needs is a call to the boss' office, and get the news that we will be let go from our jobs. There is no doubt in my mind that they will dwindle our numbers; and this questionnaire probably determines who is worthy of keeping."

Paul turned towards Dean, who was obviously concerned money wise, and supporting his family; Paul had to occupy his mind somehow. "Mr. Stanton, why don't you go, and get some food for the prisoners. I'm sure they are very hungry."

Dean nodded, and left E block without another word.

Once Dean exited the scene, Paul looked down upon Harry; who had his face buried beneath his hands. Paul scratched his forehead before starting conversation.

"Harry," Paul sat on the edge of the desk. "What's got you down?"

The older officer hesitated to answer.

"Is everything alright?"

Harry slowly shook his head back and forth. He dared not to look at Paul.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

No answer came from Harry; which raised his concern further.

"Come on, Harry. I'm your boss, and I have a right to know what is bothering you at this very moment, so we can accustom to it. No one else is around. As long as we speak quietly, the prisoners won't be able to hear a thing."

Harry withdrew his hands from his face, and stared blankly in the distance. "I'm scared Paul. This economic crisis is worldwide. If nothing is done between our governments, another world war could start. It is not as bad here, but soon I wouldn't be surprised if I find myself on the streets in five years."

Paul shook his head. "Don't think like that Harry, just think about the present; the future means nothing at this point." A hand forcefully slapped against Harry's shoulder blade, and before long, Paul was no longer on the mile.

* * *

It was approximately four o'clock in the evening. Both Paul and Dean were almost done their shift, along with Harry almost an hour later. They all discussed the situation about the questionnaire earlier, and wouldn't complete it until they got Brutal's opinion; his were the most honest.

Paul crossed his arms, and leaned against the desk. "So, when is the new offender arriving?"

"Tomorrow," Harry answered. "Hopefully he's a wild one. I got the file at lunch. His name is Fredrick Schnaps, but he prefers Freddie as his nickname; this information was provided in the file by the Warden."

Dean entered the conversation. "Is he a wild one?"

Harry glanced at the file one last time, reading it aloud. "Fredrick Schnaps is convicted of murder. He killed...lots of people. Turns out that he was a part of some environmental activist group; it's the thirties, what's with all of this hooting and hollering? Anyway, that is all the Warden gave me, you will have to check his case file in the morning." Harry closed the book and placed it behind his back. "I don't really want to know how he killed them, but I guess we will see what his personality will reflect."

Paul agreed. "Yeah, we'll see"

"Hey boys," a slurred sentence was spoken. The guards turned their attention to an older, and scruffier looking gentleman. Unlike the others he never took much care of himself, and he wasn't in uniform. Instead, he dragged a food cart around with him.

"Toot," Dean started. "You are here a little early."

"Don't really give a damn, boy." Toot snarled. "This is the last time I'll be coming around the mountain this evening."

Paul bit his tongue. "Toot, you should know better than that. One of our officers hasn't even arrived yet, and you are not going to give him a time of day to eat?"

Toot took a look at Harry, who was prepared to give Toot money for some delicious food lying on top of the cart. "I'll take some crackers." Harry said, waving the money forward.

Toot handed Dean the crackers; too lazy to hand the food towards the paying customer. "Is there anything else?"

Paul searched through his pockets, and took out a handful of currency. He placed it in Toot's hands, and quickly ordered. "Three sandwiches, box of crackers, and a Moon Pie." Without hesitation, the older gentleman snatched the money, and handed the food in less than two minutes. Then without a second thought, he left the scene; beckoning to the whole world that his shift was finally over, and that he could go home to a cell of his own.

Five minutes later, Paul and Dean's shift was over, and it was time to go home. Paul sighed as he turned towards Harry who was still preoccupied with the questionnaire. The inmates were taking their time with it, and it frustrated the guards beyond belief. It had to be turned in by tomorrow morning; a grueling task, but Paul was certain that Brutal would make sure the inmates would get it done before dawn. "Harry, tell Brutal I bought his supper, and that he doesn't have to worry about paying me back. Tell him that Toot was just being a bastard, and came around with the truck early."

Harry nodded, "Got it boss."

* * *

It was five-thirty before Brutal showed up, dressed in full uniform with a lunch box in hand. He was approximately six feet tall; towering almost every single co-worker in the prison. He looked menacing, but in reality was just an enormous teddy bear. He only used force when necessary, but his sense of humor was always there to keep everyone's spirits shining brightly. Brutus entered E block, and met Harry inside the office. Again, it was unusually quiet at E block; but it had been like that for the longest time. Despite the crimes that the convicts committed, they were very shy and quiet people.

"Hello, Harry." Brutus entered with a neutral expression.

"Good evening Brutal."

"What's wrong?" Brutal continued with his soft, yet rough voice.

"You've got a questionnaire waiting for you."

"Questionnaire," Before Brutal could protest, a large booklet was thrown in his face, "What for?"

"You have to finish it before tomorrow. There are two more on the desk. The prisoners have to fill it out too. Fill it out carefully, and tell us what your opinion is in the morning. We've already completed, or are close to completing the booklet. You and that floater might be bored tonight, so this homework might come in handy." Harry stood up, grabbing the jacket of his uniform from his chair. He gathered folders from earlier; ready to take the evening off, and leave E block in the hands of the second in command.

"I'll take a look at it."

"Read it carefully," Harry quickly answered Brutal's statement. "And complete it carefully. This may cost us our jobs, and in the wake of a recession, we cannot afford that." After his short lecture, Harry brushed past Brutus, heading out the door; slamming it shut, leaving the guard alone in the office waiting for the floater, and dreading a long graveyard shift.

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_Chapter two is next..._


	2. The Night Shift

**AN: Here is Chapter two. If you haven't already noticed, basically this Fanfiction is dedicated to the guards. John Coffey won't be in this...maybe later in the story; but this is a story based on the guard's everyday lives. Maybe their lives aren't as boring as we think they are. Please read, review and enjoy!**

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Chapter two: The Night Shift

It was around midnight, and Brutal and the young floater were busy playing a game of cards; eating corned beef sandwiches and a bag of crackers. Again, it was a long and boring night; the inmates would never talk or do much in their cells. It had been ages since Brutus had used his size against another; or threatened another man; co-worker or convict alike. In other words, he wanted some excitement to happen in E block. He had read the notes Paul had left him, explaining that they would be getting another prisoner that night. The floater hadn't been much better; he wasn't a big talker himself. Just an ordinary guy from "A" block; that didn't know much about Death Row the way Brutus did. Brutus had been working on the Green Mile for almost as long as Paul, and had seen almost anything and everything. Although something new would come along and amuse the poor man.

Brutal had taken a look at the questionnaires, and he agreed with Harry. It was complete and utter bullshit. Maybe instead of filling out bubble sheets, the least the prison could do is walk over and see the situation with their very own eyes. It was boring there for the last month. What else were the guards supposed to say? Brutal skimmed the rules and regulations. He rolled his eyes at the paper several times. The officer squinted at the first question:

Has paperwork been filled out the last month?

Yes

No

Not sure

I never fill out the paperwork

He was tempted to pick "d". Brutal licked the tip of the pencil in his hand, and circled "a". For the next half an hour, Brutal went through the excruciating pain of the booklet. Afterwards, he tossed the book aside and threw the pencil over his shoulder; angered at what the Warden forced him to accomplish along with his co-workers. They weren't doing a checkup. It was obvious what the test was for. They were going to lay off workers, and like Harry stated, in a hard economic crisis, losing your job would be one of the worst feelings ever. Brutal knew about the harsh reality of life; he had seen people kill themselves over a situation like that.

Brutal grabbed the other two questionnaires, along with a chair, and carried everything over to the first cell. He knocked the bars loudly with his baton. "Hey, Alex, wake up for a minute." Brutal stood his ground, and knocked his baton against the cell again, hoping to wake the convict up; but he was dead asleep. Brutal really didn't feel like opening the door, and giving the man a beating. Dumping a bucket of ice cold water on him would be another option. There was no such thing as hot water on Cold Mountain, so cold water was the only water supply that they could afford; lucky him. "Alexander, wake up!" Brutus exclaimed, but it was no use. The man was caught in a deep sleep, and the questionnaire had to be completed in the morning. Suddenly, a small knock was heard behind him. Brutus shifted his body around, and noticed the other inmate, Winnie, wide awake, and peeking his head through the bars.

"He's a deep sleeper," Winnie pointed out the obvious.

"Well, no shit Sherlock." Brutal moaned.

"What are you doing boss Howell?" Winnie questioned.

Brutal raised both his eyebrows, and placed the chair in front of Winnie's cell. "I guess I'll start with you now." The officer made himself comfortable in the middle of the hall; he stared into the soul of the prisoner. "We have to fill out a questionnaire for all our sakes. I was going to start out with sleeping beauty, but obviously I'm too busy to waste my time. You ready?"

"Yes boss."

"Gooood," Brutal said with a sleek smile.

And so he continued with the questionnaire. Forty five minutes had passed, and they were still moving slowly. Out of the twenty pages, only five were completed. There were quite a few "Yes" answers coming from Harry; which made Brutus question himself. A question such as, "Are the guards treating you with upmost respect, and sympathy?" "Yes" was Winnie's answer, but that was their jobs. They had to keep the prisoners calm by talking. They had to use their brains, and not entirely their brawn. There were other questions that meant nothing towards the occupation at hand; it drove both Brutus and Winnie mad. Brutal could see the look in Winnie's eyes; he was getting irritated, and was constantly wondering when the pain and suffering of this questionnaire would end.

"You know what?" Brutal started, tossing the pencil aside. "Fuck this questionnaire." The guard firmly gripped the booklet, and ripped it in half. He continued to do so until there was nothing left. Once letting out his frustrations, he clumped the tiny fragments of paper together in his fist, and exhaled. Several papers soared into the air, and scattered amongst the mile. "I'm going to go insane if we keep this up. If they like me enough they will keep me."

Winnie nodded. "You are a very good man boss Howell, they will keep you. They'll keep all of you. You treat us well, where no one else would; and you keep both Alex and I company every day when we've got nobody else. I know I ain't much of a talker, but I don't have much time boss. I'm dead in three days."

Brutal couldn't help but smile. "Thanks for your support Winnie, but trust me, we aren't that perfect either. I'm bored out of my mind, and Mr. Floater over there isn't much help in keeping me occupied. Let's say…would you like to play a game of cribbage?"

"What's that?" Winnie questioned.

"You shitting me, it's a card game. The best two handed one too. I just know that you'd love it. You seem like the guy who likes to play a game of cribbage." Brutus snatched a deck of cards beside his feet, and began shuffling them. "I'll teach you how to play."

"Okay," the prisoner complied.

"So first, there is the Draw, Shuffle and Cut. From a shuffled pack face down, each player cuts a card, leaving at least four cards at either end of the pack. If both players cut cards of the same rank, each draws again. The player with the lower card deals the first hand. Thereafter, the turn to deal alternates between the two players, except that the loser of the game deals first if another game is played. The dealer has the right to shuffle last, and he presents the cards to the non-dealer for the cut prior to the deal. (In some games, there is no cut at this time.) Then there is the Deal. The dealer distributes six cards face down to his opponent and himself, beginning with the opponent. Oh, I almost forgot, the object of the game is to be the first player to score 121 points. Players earn points during play and for making various card combinations. Now, each player looks at his six cards and "lays away" two of them face down to reduce the hand to four. The four cards laid away together constitute "the crib". The crib belongs to the dealer, but these cards are not exposed or used until after the hands have been played. After the crib is laid away, the non-dealer cuts the pack. The dealer turns up the top card of the lower packet and places it face up on top of the pack. This card is the "starter." If the starter is a jack, it is called "His Heels," and the dealer pegs or scores 2 points at once. The starter is not used in the play phase of Cribbage, but is used later for making various card combinations that score points. After the starter is turned, the non-dealer lays one of his cards face up on the table. The dealer similarly exposes a card, then non-dealer again, and so on - the hands are exposed card by card, alternately except for a "Go." Each player keeps his cards separate from those of his opponent. As each person plays, he announces a running total of pips reached by the addition of the last card to all those previously played. For example: The non-dealer begins with a four, saying "Four." The dealer plays a nine, saying "Thirteen". The kings, queens and jacks count 10 each; every other card counts its pip value; the ace counts as one." There was a long pause of silence, before Brutal spoke again. "Did you get all of that?"

Winnie nodded. "I think so."

Brutus waved a hand towards the desk, in which another guard was quietly working. He tried to get the young man's attention, "Might as well get the floater in on it too." Brutal whistled sharp, causing the guard to look up, and stare at Brutus. "Hey, floater, come and join us!"

The guard shook his head.

Brutus scoffed. "No?" he paused, and then spoke his mind, "Bastard." Brutal turned his attention back towards Winnie, "Looks like it is just you and me then."

* * *

The game of cribbage had ended about an hour and a half later, and Brutal had to admit that he really enjoyed himself. After their game, a little chit chat came into play. Brutal was never an expressive man, but when he had a little one on one with another human being, you got to know the individual a little bit more closely. According to the guard, there was nothing too impressive about him; just a single man trying to make a living out in the country side. And for Winnie, besides his cannibalistic nature and sense of murder, he was an interesting man. The dark side of life was cruel, and the events that occurred in the prisoner's lives, were the main cause of the crimes they committed. However, they still did wrong, and they still were murderers; they deserved to fry, but might as well make their last moments worth it.

Brutal glanced over to his left, staring at the restraint room; they haven't had much use of it. As long as the new prisoner wasn't a crazy block head, the restraint room wouldn't be needed for another few months or so; maybe even a year. Brutus glanced back at Winnie, who obviously needed sleep. He rose from his chair, and glanced around the mile; he noticed all of the clutter around the prison; chairs, desks, and other stuff that could be put away somewhere; and Brutal needed something to do. First, he started with a simple chair, and placed it inside the padded room; he continued to do so with the other chaos that was hoarding the mile.

Brutal was done at approximately five in the morning. The place was cleaner than it had ever been before; or as long as he could remember. He and the floater were playing their game of cribbage, eating their sandwiches and other assortments of food as they carefully placed their cards amongst the table top. They didn't talk much. Brutal couldn't wait for his shift to be over. He'd have the day off at noon, and would return to a morning shift; which was a good change for once. Then, there were the dreaded questionnaires. He had completed two out of the three; the third he shredded to pieces; making the excuse that one of the prisoners refused to take the test. He was a gentle giant, but when it came to unnecessary things, he didn't have the time or patience for it. He wrote random answers inside his test to make himself look good – like everybody else – and forged Alex's test. Brutal placed the last booklet inside the nearest garbage bin; the Warden would understand.

Brutus eyed the clock above the desk. Time passed fairly quickly; it was six thirty. Paul would be arriving soon, along with Dean, Harry and the new prisoner. Home wasn't too far around the corner. Brutal rose from his chair, and headed towards the mile's office. He went inside, and snatched the questionnaires from the desk. He placed them into Harry's folder; making sure that it was neat and organized. Brutal was convinced that Harry had OCD. He wanted everything in alphabetical order, organized, and he did the same tasks over and over again in a repeated pattern that he just couldn't break. It was the same for Brutus and his pencil licking. He was sure that one day he would die from lead poisoning.

Brutal gently closed the door to the office, and headed through the hallway. He noticed that it was unnaturally dirty. Along with habits, Brutal liked everything exceptionally clean; he was a perfectionist you could say. He would have to get the floor spit shined before he could go home; it was just another thing on his plate. Brutus continued down the hallway, and he noticed that he was becoming tired. He shifted to the right slightly, his shoulder brushing against the brick wall. He heard a tear, but ignored the strange noise. Once Brutus reached the desk, he tossed the folder aside, and took a sharp look at the floater.

"Your shift is over, you can go home." Brutus said to the young officer, softly.

The floater gawked at Brutal. "Are you sure?"

He nodded. "Yeah, thanks for all of your help. You did great with the paperwork, and we should play cards again some time."

The young officer grinned as he stood up, and grabbed all of his belongings. Brutal nodded his head towards the door, gesturing that the boy should get going before Brutal changed his mind about letting him go home ten minutes early. Once the floater was out of sight, Brutus leaned the back of his body against the desk, and he stared down the mile. He swore that he could hear crickets through the tiling. The inmates didn't make a sound; they were fast asleep.

Brutal spent another five minutes in peace, until he suddenly felt something wet running down his leg. He could feel the wetness against his ankle, and strolling over his black shoe. Brutus glanced downwards, and noticed a small pool of blood lacing around his right foot. He bent over, and examined his leg further. He obtained a large cut almost two inches in length, and half an inch deep. It bled with no mercy; however Brutus did not panic, he simply grabbed the handkerchief from the back of his pocket, and dabbed it against his leg; the hanky collecting blood quicker than expected. Brutus casually walked towards the washroom, and once reaching the sink, placed the handkerchief under the water; rinsing it thoroughly before placing it back onto his wound. He must have snagged it on something when he leaned against the wall earlier. The cut was large in length, but did not need stitching. Brutal sat inside the bathroom, leaning his back against the brick wall on the ground, waiting for the blood to clot.

* * *

There was a large clang heard as Paul entered the mile. He greeted an empty desk, and an extremely quiet prison. No guard was heard nor seen. He knew that the floater had left an hour or so ago, but Brutal was nowhere in sight; Paul guessed that he was either inside the washroom or in the office; either way, he'd be back soon. Paul sauntered further, and noticed that the mile was cleaner than usual; most of the extra and unnecessary furniture was missing. He had wondered where it had all mysteriously gone to. He stalked around the desk, and stepped onto something wet. He gazed downwards, and noticed a pool of blood on the floor. Did something happen last night?

Paul looked around the prison; discovering a long, thin trail of blood. He saw a few small spots that accompanied the sides of the trail. Paul followed it carefully, and noticed that the evidence lead to the bathroom door. Once he reached the door, he knocked lightly.

The body inside heard the knock loud and clear. "Paul?"

Paul took a quick breath. "Brute, are you alright in there?"

Brutal replied calmly, "Yeah, I'm fine. You can come in you know."

Paul slowly pulled open the bathroom door. He was hoping to find Brutal with a bloody nose or something, but instead found him on the floor; with his back against the wall. There was a bloody handkerchief against his ankle. Brutus dabbed at it every so often, for the wound started to clot. Paul noticed that he was a little pale. "Are you alright Brutal?"

Brutus nodded, and slightly smiled. "Yeah, I'm fine," he continued to dab at the wound. "I cut my ankle on something ten minutes ago. It's starting to clot. It doesn't need stitching, but I'll put a little something on it tomorrow." He explained softly. "When is the prisoner showing up?"

Paul raised an eyebrow. "About an hour…Harry and Dean still have to arrive."

Brutal stood up. He winced slightly; as the wound stung too much for his taste. He turned the tap on the sink, and placed the handkerchief back under the water, squeezing the blood from the cloth.

"Did you finish the assignment?" Paul suddenly questioned.

Brutal nodded. "I finished mine, and Alex finished his. Winnie refused to answer anything, and ripped the booklet to shreds." He was lying, and Paul was well aware of it. He wasn't the greatest liar in the whole wide world, but Paul had known Brutus for years, and a small perk would always show. In this case, Brutal tended to furrow his eyebrows after he lied; however, Paul didn't mention anything about it. He figured that Brutus ripped the booklet to bits, and forged Alex's test. Brutus probably completed his questionnaire with his eyes closed.

"What did you think?" Paul asked, leaning against the door.

Brutal shrugged. "It was a waste of time. That's all I can say about it." Brutus tossed his handkerchief into the garbage beside him. "Diseased…poor Harry, he's probably stressing over the situation like it was the end of the world." Brutal rolled down his pant leg. Paul took a small glimpse of the wound; it was a beauty.

The two guards exited the washroom. Brutal adjusted his uniform, making sure that everything looked flawless; such as wrinkles. Paul spoke, "Harry lost money in his bank account last week, a lot of it. Dean went and checked his account last night. He said that when he noticed that fifty dollars was taken, he quickly closed all of his accounts and ran with the money. It's a world crisis, and that's why the questionnaire was a serious test." Paul lifted the booklet above his head. "And yours is a piece of shit. I expected better from you."

Brutal chuckled. "Like I said boss, it was a waste of time. The Warden knows me. I've been here for years, along with you. Hal is most likely going to go to you for a reference on every worker on E block; you are our Supervisor. Trust me Paul. They did this to everyone at the prison."

Paul slowly lowered himself into the nearest chair, and pulled out his pocket watch. He glanced at the time. "Everyone wants to save money Brutus, and if they want to save money because there isn't much action here at E block, then they will do as they please."

Brutal shook his head. "It won't happen."

"Tell that to Dean and Harry when they get here. I'm sure you will lighten their spirits then."

"Yes boss."

Paul scanned Brutus from head to toe; he was still as white as a ghost. "I do agree with you Brutal, but we've already lived through a war. You and I were lucky enough to not have been involved with such things. You were sixteen, still in High School; and I was twenty two, taking care of my child. We were safe here in America, but in twenty plus years, another one could potentially occur. Let's hope not, alright?"

Brutal stood firmly with his hands behind his back, "Alright?"

"What did you cut yourself on?"

Brutus tilted his head slightly, "Must have snagged it on something. Didn't notice it till later, but I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?" Paul continued, "You are pale, and swaying from side to side."

Brutus frowned and held his breath, "I'm fine." He escalated his rough voice, causing Paul's eyes to widen, and shut the hell up.

Suddenly, both Dean and Harry entered the scene. Paul and Brutal were so deep in their conversation that they didn't notice the two bringing the prisoner inside the Green Mile. Paul quickly stood up, banging his knee against the table. Once he finally managed to get onto his feet, he met with the other three guards. He took a long glance at the prisoner before him. Again, he was an average sized man, nowhere near the height of him nor Brutus. Though this man was different…most men on death row were rough and ragged, it didn't matter what their personality traits were; the physical features were the most evident. The convict was slightly dirty, but clean shaven. He had incredible posture, and looked almost as if he was pleased to be on Death Row. He wasn't the stereotypical murder machine that E block had seen for years. The man was incredibly skinny, his lanky body wouldn't match any of the guards on E block; not even toot. He wore his prisoner's uniform like everybody else. The man obtained piercing silver eyes, and bright blonde hair; brighter than Brutus'. His hair was slicked back, and the majority of his face was so sharp that you could cut yourself just by touching; the cheekbones especially. Paul felt something strange. The prisoner stared into his eyes, causing a shiver to roll down Paul's spine. It was as if a ghost had walked right through him. He didn't know what it was, or why, but there was something mysterious about the offender. He'd have to check his case file after his declaration regarding the rules and regulations to the prisoner.

"Follow me," Paul said with an aggressive tone. He, the prisoner, along with the rest of the guards slowly made their way towards the end of the mile. As they strode by, both Paul and the new inmate noticed the other two prisoners; Winnie and Alex. They were curious; their faces smothered within the bars of their cage. Once the guards reached the end of the mile, Dean took snatched the keys attached to his belt, and opened the rusty cell. The prisoner did not fight, nor did he hesitate to go inside. As he brushed past the boss, he offered a smile of gratitude; neither something Paul nor any of the other guards were willing to accept at the moment. Paul entered after, Harry trailing behind with the keys for the cuffs.

Paul raised his voice, "My name is Paul Edgecomb. People around here call me "boss"; and that's what I want you to call me."

The convict nodded.

Paul huffed. "If you need anything, you can call either boss Howell, boss Stanton, or boss Terwilliger. Either one of us will be on shift day and night…" Paul trailed off; he saw the man's eyes shine bright again, and stare back into his soul. Paul ignored the action and took another breath. "Can you talk? What's your name?"

The new convict blinked twice, and looked to the side. His voice was light, calm and collective; you wouldn't have known that he had committed a crime. He never fit the profile; at least not back then. "My name is Frederick Schnaps. And I know you like to give people nicknames; I've heard the stories and the rumours. Please, call me Freddie." He paused and stared at the guards for a moment or two before continuing the rest of his statement with his arms stretched outwards. "Now, I've had these on me all morning. Can you please take them off?" Freddie turned his attention towards Harry, ready with the keys.

None of them could believe it. The man was calm and courteous. He wasn't wild like all of the others; and there was no need to punish or beat him from what they could see in their perspectives. All of the guards were curious to see his profile; and the crimes that he had committed.

Paul nudged Harry, who fumbled with the keys. "Mr. Terwilliger is going to take your cuffs off now. If you try anything, we will shoot you."

Freddie acknowledged Paul's threat.

Harry squeezed his way between Paul and prisoner. He stood before the convict, and released the chains from his wrists and ankles. Once finished, he rose to his feet, and left the cell, waiting for the others. Paul took one last look at the new inmate before leaving the enclosed area. When no one but Freddie was left inside, Dean quickly closed and locked the cell tightly. The guards all left, casually walking towards the office. They were all ready to analyze Freddie's profile, and learn the truth about the man they were going to execute.

_Chapter three is next..._


	3. Analysis

**AN: Here's Chapter three! Hope you are all enjoying the story thus far! Please read and review, comments are appreciated. And the follow and favourite button is just below as well.**

**Take care lovelies!**

* * *

Analysis:

The four guards on E block, Harry Terwilliger, Dean Stanton, Brutal Howell and Paul Edgecomb all sat in the heated office. It must have been over a hundred degrees inside the office, and no matter how hard they tried to get air ventilating through the room, there was no way they could get past the sun; it was too damn hot. Everyone, but Harry took their belts and coats off; their shirts and ties clinging against their bodies. They were sweating uncontrollably. As some stared at the paperwork before them, Paul was busy reading the new inmate's profile. He was curious as to what he had committed. His physical traits wouldn't be able to hurt a fly, and the way he dressed and talked didn't seem to fit the bill; he was too perfect. I guess the truth had to come out sooner or later: you could be the sweet little old lady standing at the corner, and still be a killer.

According to Freddie's case file, several suicides had taken place over a period of two weeks. The police knew that they were linked in some sort of way. The authorities didn't think much of it until a large group, about sixty or so activists got together and gathered around their leader; of who convinced everyone to kill themselves. They all drank poison, simultaneously. They died together; except for their leader, who was too chicken to do so himself; or too sick to do himself. Was it for his own benefit; and entertainment? Did he take advantage over those sixty people who truly believed in themselves and their ideas? The authorities and the state of law seemed to agree with those questions, and sent him to the green mile; to be electrocuted. Paul had never heard something like this before. Technically speaking, the activists killed themselves as a group, but their leader was the head and the mouth of the group; persuading each individual to do themselves in. He did kill them; psychologically, and then it made sense to the group at E block. The man couldn't kill with his hands, he could kill with his mind; and that is what made him so scary.

"Everyone," Paul raised his voice with concern. "You all read his case file?"

"Yes," Dean projected.

Both Harry and Brutal stared at Paul with a neutral expression.

"I want you all to be careful if he tries to talk to any of you." Paul tossed the file back to Harry. "You all saw the case file, if he can convince sixty people to do something like that to themselves; he might just have the urge to play with all of our minds."

Brutal sighed. "Listen Paul, I agree with you on this, but we still have to treat him with the dignity and respect that we give to all of the other inmates."

It was Dean's turn to speak. "Well, I know that we are all caring and considerate, but isn't that kind of scary? Sure, the folks were activists fighting for rights that really never made sense to us, but he took advantage of that, and turned everything against them. He might take what matters the most to us, and do the same if we are not careful."

Brutal nodded. "Well, if he gets into anything personal, just stop him and walk away. And if he gets out of hand, we can stick him into the restraint room." –

"In which you turned into a storage room," Paul added, giving his friend a menacing look. Both Brutal and Paul chuckled together.

Harry placed his glasses onto his nose, and stared at a file before him. "We will all be careful, but he didn't seem like much of a talker either. Things may be boring as usual."

Brutal rose to his feet, and placed a firm hand onto Paul's shoulder. "Let's focus on cleaning Ol' sparky and rehearsing tomorrow. Then we deal with Winnie's execution. After that, well…I'm sure we will see the true personality of our new friend."

All of the men in the room smiled. Brutal then grabbed his coat and wrapped it around his arm. He took a hold of his belt, accessorized with guns and bullets, and placed it around his waist, so he didn't have so much to carry. He snatched his lunchbox and scurried towards the door, his shoes squeaking against the ground. He opened the office door, and before leaving peered at the rest of his co-workers with a grin. "See you on Friday boys."

"Bye," all the guards said in a chained reaction.

Once Brutus was gone, that's when the many questions occurred. Paul couldn't help, but answer them.

* * *

It was Thursday night, which angered Brutus. The next day was a morning shift, and he would be stuck cleaning the individual cells. He would be sweeping, mopping, scrubbing the walls; damn, he felt like a maid. These weren't officer's jobs, but it was extra duty, because of the slow work; it had to be done whether they liked it or not. But all Brutal could do now was enjoy the evening to himself; like most of the time. He was a lonely man. He never had anyone special in his life. He had friends, but it was hard to get together when work got in the way. Paul invited everyone for dinner on Sunday; all were working the day shift, so nobody but floaters would be stepping onto the mile. Paul was sometimes on call, but nothing out of the ordinary has happened lately.

But Brutal couldn't help but wonder about the new prisoner; Freddie. If the convicted wasn't wearing a uniform, Brutal would have thought that Cold Mountain had gone insane; just picked an average, good looking man on the street. This was a new era, and they were going to have to get used to it. The depression was now hitting America hard, and Brutus hadn't bothered to check his accounts. Unlike Harry and Paul, he wasn't that interested in the stock market. Brutus was just an ordinary man, living inside an ordinary home, living an average life. It humbled him. He had great friends, of who were treated as family, and a wonderful job that he couldn't be more thankful of. Dinner on Sunday was going to be great; he would get to spend time with Paul, Dean and Harry of who were all going to be accompanied with their wives; and Dean's kids. Brutal had met them once before, the eldest was six years old, the youngest four; Dean was in training at the time. Dean and his family were very young; thinking about it made him feel old. When he realized that the big 4-0 would come around the mountain eventually, it made him feel ancient.

Brutus sat on the edge of the bathtub. He wore a clean white t-shirt, and a pair of shorts. It was nice to get away from their dark, hot uniforms. Brutal's right leg was propped up, and he was cleaning the wound – of which he had received two days ago –thoroughly. He had ignored it all day, but the stinging wouldn't subside. No matter what movement he made, the pain just got worse. The cut was healing though. A scab was created, and it never opened. Puss did seep out of the wound every now and then, but Brutal had a bottle of cream handy for occasions such as this. After cleaning out the dirt, and grime, Brutal reached for the cream, and rubbed it along his skin. It burned, but he was a tough man, a little cut could do him no harm.

The phone rang. Brutal rushed out of the bathroom, and hobbled along the hallway to the phone inside the living room. He answered the caller. "Hello?"

It was Paul. "Hey, I have to talk to you."

Brutal was concerned, "About what, Paul? Did something happen at the mile?"

"No, no everything is fine."

Brutal raised an eyebrow. "Then what's it about?"

"Hal needs to see you tomorrow if you don't comply with me."

Brutal scoffed. "Does this have to do with the test that we took?"

Paul was quick to reply. "Brutus, you listen to me, okay? We've been good friends for a very long time, and I'd hate to see something bad happen to you, so I need to talk some sense into you!"

This was unnecessary. "Hey, I gave you my opinion."

"Hal doesn't compute like I do. He knows that you forged the prisoner's tests, and he could tell in your writing that you didn't give a damn. You have the best writing amongst all of the guards."

Brutal was silent.

"Brutal, the Warden knows you. He can read you like a book." Paul could hear some chuckling in the background; he wasn't impressed. "I'm serious Brute. Harry and Dean put their heart and soul into that questionnaire while you were shitting all over it. Hal wants you to take it again, but this time seriously. He's going to keep your word on the prisoner's tests, but expect a booklet on the desk when you get to work tomorrow. Hal will most likely pop in to see you when you get there, so you better find a good excuse than the one you gave me."

Brutal sighed. "But that's the truth."

"Fuck the truth." said Paul blatantly.

Brutus bore a serious expression, realizing that Paul was right in a way. "I'm sorry Paul. I'll make sure I'll take the test seriously at work tomorrow."

"Good."

* * *

Harry Terwilliger was caught in a large line at the bank. There must have been at least twenty people in front of him. There were four tellers, but the majority were at each teller for over forty five minutes; which angered him. He couldn't afford to be late for work. He didn't bother making a phone call to work before he left home, and there sure wasn't one around on the streets; it would be too convenient. Harry glanced at his watch and tapped his feet impatiently. He felt the urge to leave, but soon realized that there was a larger line behind him. He was stuck in the middle, and if he came back later, he'd be in the exact same spot as he was before.

He had to hurry though. Ninety nine percent of the people were either buying extra protection for their accounts, or closing them all, taking the money and running; Dean committed the latter. An hour went by, and he found three more people in front of him. He was so close, but yet so far away. His shift started at ten o' clock, and it was already eight thirty; he was really pressed for time. Harry continued to glance at his watch; and continued to stare and follow the line bit by bit. He couldn't distract himself, but It wasn't long before his name was called, and quickly walked up to the teller.

The proper woman in front of him folded her hands. She was an older lady, and seemed like she knew what the commotion was all about. Harry deemed his guess was true, but coming from a professional seemed wiser. "What can I do for you, sir?"

Harry's eye twitched. "I need to close my accounts."

"I'm sorry sir," she smiled gleefully again. How could she smile in a dire situation such as this? "But because of the economy, we can no longer do that; only the first one hundred."

Harry bit his cheek. "Then what am I to do?"

"What's your name?"

"Harry Terwilliger."

She glanced down at his shaking hands; which were crumpled together. He was afraid, and he wasn't afraid to show it. But it was understandable; everyone was afraid in a situation like this. The woman turned around, and headed to a large cabinet. She searched through it and pulled out a tiny folder; then retraced her steps. The teller opened the folder as she sat down, glooming over the situation. "Harry Terwilliger. You don't happen to be related to Mary Terwilliger?"

Harry nodded, but didn't smile. "Yes, she's my wife."

The teller scanned the pages. "We used to go to High School together. Well, Mr. Terwilliger looks like you lost another hundred dollars since last time you've been here. You had a lot saved up I see." The woman was careful not to speak too loudly. When it came to money, everything was confidential.

A shiver went down Harry's spine. Another one hundred dollars…gone. The most he made was ten dollars a week. He'd have to labour until he died in order to gain back all of the money he had lost. He had hoped for retirement in less than ten years; after all, he had worked at the mile for more than twenty five years. "How much can I take out?"

The woman glanced along his file. She pointed at a specific area. "It looks like you do not have a limit. You can take as much money out of your account as you'd like."

Thank you Jesus!

"But you still have to pay the bank fee of one dollar; otherwise you will be hip deep into trouble. And you do not want that on your plate, trust me." The teller was right; she knew what she was talking about. But why did such a place like this have to be so hard, and trustworthy on its customers? It doesn't make sense, but if you think about it, not much about life makes sense anyway.

"I'll take five hundred. That gives me thirty left."

The woman complied. She pulled cash from underneath the counter, and counted aloud as she placed the money along the desk. Once the five hundred was in place, Harry quietly grabbed the cash and placed it into his coat pocket. Some strange people were lingering the corners. They were watching, and it was nerve-racking. The woman placed her hand on top of his; she stroked it gently. Harry was confused as the teller leaned over, and whispered into his ear. "Take the side door. And run, cautiously. Some people might take advantage over you as you are an older gentleman. Do you have exact change?"

Harry said "yes" in silence.

"The bus will be here in thirty seconds. Take it to your car. They cannot hurt you there."

She was dead wrong about that statement, but she'd probably seen anything and everything; so following her word was probably the wisest decision. Harry, still pressed for time, took another glance at the strange men in the corners of the bank. He kept a watchful eye as he left the bank; he spotted the nearest bus and hopped onto it, hoping that the teller was right.

* * *

Harry burst through the doors of E block. He entered a quiet prison once again. As he attempted to catch his breath, he glanced at the clock; five to ten…he was on time. Thank god that it was Paul's day off, or he'd be in trouble for sure! He spotted Dean, stripped down to his white shirt and tie, standing beside the main desk in the mile. He was holding a broom; placing his chin on the tip. Dean was staring at something in the distance. There was some sort of commotion going on inside the first cell to the left. It was left wide open; which worried Harry. He noticed that an inmate along with an officer was missing from the scene, but Dean didn't seem too concerned.

Harry looked at Dean with a worried expression. "What's going on here? Where's Brutal?"

Dean pointed to the open cell. "He's in there scrubbing the walls. I don't know what's wrong with him."

Harry placed his belongings onto the table, and stood adjacent to Dean. He stared inside the cell, finding Brutal on his hands and knees, scrubbing the floor; menacingly. Brutus glanced over his shoulder, spotting Harry with a confused expression smothered along his face, "Oh, good morning Harry."

"Brutal," Harry started, "What are you doing?"

Brutal stood erect. He wiped his nose. "Cleaning, why?"

Harry was in silence.

Brutal turned his attention towards Dean. "Dean, remind me why I am doing this. Why am I doing this?"

Dean whispered in Harry's direction. "He asked me that four times already this morning. I think he is going crazy." –

Brutal quickly turned, and pointed in Dean's direction; although he was so far away, Harry couldn't tell who he was throwing his anger towards. "Hey, I heard that." He then turned around chuckling to himself; Dean played along. Harry was still confused at the situation.

Brutal wiped his nose again, and continued to clean the walls of the cell. "Don't be alarmed guys; I'm still my gentle and caring self. I'm still sane. Warden Moore came to talk to me this morning. We had a little chat about the questionnaire. It didn't sit well with me."

Dean's ears perked, "What did he say?"

"He said," Brutal sniffled. "That he was disappointed in me, and that I should take a little more responsibility as second in command. In other words, he fried me like Ol' Sparky."

Harry's eyes widened. "You weren't fired, were you?"

"No," Brutal answered. "I was right. If I'm valuable to them, they will keep me. You two are just as valuable, even more than me." Brutal tossed the sponge back into the dirty pale beside him. "No one is going anywhere on E block; but my punishment…is cleaning duty, and…he's making me do the questionnaire again, but this time, I have to put my heart and soul into this paper."

Harry bore a sly expression, "Should have done it right the first time."

"Well, I didn't have time." Brutus elevated his body, and slowly walked out of the cell. "I was too busy playing cribbage. Look at you, Harry. You look like you've seen a ghost; what's wrong this morning?" Brutal clapped his hands together.

Harry glanced to the side before locking his eyes with both Dean and Brutus. "I went to the bank, and lost another hundred dollars. They wouldn't let me close the accounts, so I took just as much money that I needed, and ran. I'm getting scared Brutal. I'm scared because there are people in poverty, without jobs and living on the streets. People are killing each other for money."

Brutal's smile quickly faded. Dean wasn't too concerned now that he knew that the money was safe for his family. Harry continued, "We might be seeing some new characters on the mile pretty soon, I can guarantee that."

There was a large BANG! The three guards gazed down the mile, and saw that one of the prisoners in the far cell had dropped something; and was desperately trying to reach for it. Dean stared at the other two guards, and nodded. Brutal and Harry exited the Green Mile while Dean made his way towards the cell. It was Freddie's cell. As he drew closer and closer, he saw that a coiled novel had been dropped, and the convict was too short and weak to reach it. Dean took a step forward, and leaned down. He picked up the book; however he found his wrist a little too close to the bars.

Dean heard a sharp click. He shifted his eyes downwards, and found himself handcuffed to the bars of the cell. Freddie grabbed Dean's wrist and pulled him close; clamping his jaw, and covering his mouth. The prisoner told him to hush as Dean struggled and attempted to cry for help, but for some reason, after two minutes of constant struggling, the soothing sound of the man's voice calmed Dean, and almost made him fall into a deep slumber.

"I just want to talk," Freddie whispered. He let go of Dean.

* * *

_Chapter four is next..._


	4. Playing With the Mind Part 1:

**AN: Thanks to all my readers, thus far! Hope you are all enjoying the story. Remember to read, review and most of all, enjoy! Also, favourite and follow!**

**Again, I do not own the Green Mile. Wish I did though, I would have made like ten thousand sequels! :D**

* * *

Playing with the Mind Part 1:

"I said hold still," the inmate spoke softly, attempting to calm the young officer. He let go of Dean, but tended to struggle, so grabbing a hold of him once again seemed like the best option. He needed somebody to talk to. "I want to just talk, okay?"

Dean nodded hesitantly.

Freddie spoke again, "You are an officer. You still have one free hand. I'm sure that you have a key."

Dean shook his head. "No I do not," his statement was muffled. Dean bit the offender's hand, but he didn't move in the slightest.

"Well that makes things a whole lot more interesting." The man snarled, still grasping Dean's body. "Now, listen to me. Like I said before, I just want a little chat. Do you think we can accomplish that without you calling for aid?" The man pulled a key from the inside of his shoe. "I have a key myself. When I say we are done, then we are done. I'm sure we will be done our little conversation before those two get back." The inmate looked down upon Dean. "Do you think you can handle that, quietly?"

Dean dipped his head. "Good." He released Dean from his grasp, and let the young officer take a couple of deep breaths before speaking. "Mr. Stanton, I think it would be a pleasure to get to know you a little more. You seem like a very young and sophisticated man."

Dean attempted to free his hand from the cuffs, but it was no use. "Yes, you are true on both parts, but we are not allowed to share such private information with convicts such as yourself; or anyone in the workforce."

The inmate cocked his head to the side. "But you share it with your co-workers."

"They are my friends," Dean said with authority.

"The depression sure has settled down here in America, hasn't it?"

Dean silently agreed whilst playing with the cuffs. "Yes, everyone knows that."

"Tell me, what do you think about our world? What is your philosophy on life?"

Dean thought for a moment, but nothing really came to mind. It was blank space.

"It's a stupid, cold hearted bastard. That is what the world is…Dean."

Dean shuddered. He shouted at the prisoner. "Don't call me that!"

"It's a free country, Dean! I can call you whatever I want; just like I call Mr. Howell, Brutus, and Mr. Edgecomb, Paul. But back onto the subject, life sucks…and that's how it is. Wouldn't you like to change that, change the world, fight for what you believe in?"

Dean shook his head and laughed. "What are you trying to get at Freddie?"

The inmate scratched his head. "You closed your accounts, yet you are still worried about your money; I can see it in your eyes. You are overly tired, the redness accompanies the worry. Your hair isn't as neat as it was before, and there are specs of dirt on your uniform. Not to mention that it is only eleven o clock, meaning that you didn't wash it the night before." There was an awkward pause, before Freddie finally broke the silence. His voice carried throughout the corridor. "You are filthy, and I'm sure you are tired of it; along with the rest of the world. But now it is time to change that filth, it is time to change you. It's what you want and everyone else wants. Be who you want to be, don't let others push you around. You want to know why?"

"Why?" Dean challenged.

Freddie sported a menacing expression. "Because I believe in you, and I believe in the best of your ability. Don't be scared of this cruel world; it's a bully. Fight for what you believe in, no matter what situation. That way, you will be recognized, and people will treat you with more respect. The Earth is just a bully, but only you alone can stand up to that. I want you to think about that Dean…I want you to think about that real hard." The inmate waved the magic key, and removed the handcuffs from Dean's wrist. "I'm done talking. Thank you for listening attentively. But let me tell you one more thing."

"Yeah," Dean responded while rubbing his wrist. He detached the cuffs from the metal bars.

"They are going to find you, and rip you apart."

"Who is?"

But Freddie didn't answer the question. Instead, he casually walked back towards his thin bed, and lay down facing the wall. Dean could hear strong footsteps pacing through the hallways. He hurried to his feet, turning to look, finding both Paul and Brutus meeting at the main desk. Dean ran towards the two men, slowing down as he drew closer.

Paul scanned Dean from head to toe. He noticed Dean feeling his wrist occasionally. Paul raised an eyebrow. "Are you alright, son? Your wrist is raw."

Dean shook his head. "My wrist is alright, boss."

Dean couldn't believe it; he didn't say a word about Freddie's lecture, and how he had handcuffed him to the cell bars. He didn't talk about their struggles, or the pain he was dealing with; he was silently defending the inmate. The guards were unaware of the commotion that took place ten minutes ago. Paul turned his back, blocking Dean, most likely talking private matters with Brutal. Dean was the baby of the family, the newcomer. He had worked at the mile for a little over five years, but to them, he was still the baby, and sometimes the unreliable one. He's proved himself before, but he never got much say in anything considering that Harry, Brutus and Paul were his superiors.

Paul peered over his shoulder. "Is there a problem, Dean?"

"No sir," he replied hastily.

"A light needs to be replaced in the office, could you go fix that, please?"

Dean acknowledged. He had no choice but to follow orders; it wasn't all right. They were a team, family, wasn't that true? Maybe Freddie was right, maybe he should stand up to this hard, cruel world and fight for what he really stands for. Dean no longer wished to be pushed around; it was time for him to become a part of the conversation.

* * *

Freddie sat politely inside his cell, singing a tune. He wasn't a great singer, which angered the guards; for their ears were bleeding because of it. Twice a day, they would tell him to either hum, or speak the words; a singing career wasn't worth it. It had been a day since Dean's interaction with Freddie, and none of the guards were anywhere in sight. They had gone into rehearsal for Winnie's execution. While they were away with Toot, the imaginative trustee, Freddie decided that there would finally be a little one on one interaction with the other convicts. Alex and Winnie never talked; it seemed like they needed some company; especially Winnie, who was to die in a couple of hours.

"Winnie," Freddie whispered. Winnie was in the cell across from him, staring at the wall blankly. He gracefully turned his head to find his neighbour pointing a finger at him. "Winnie!"

Winnie bit his cheek. "What do you want, loser?"

Freddie placed a hand on his chest; his mouth was in the shape of an 'o'. "I'm offended."

"Don't sound so sarcastic," Winnie replied.

"Oh come one now. I just want to talk."

Winnie rubbed his forehead. "And lecture me like you did to Mr. Stanton. I don't think so."

Winnie was in the middle of turning his back towards Freddie, but a quick question from the other prisoner stopped him from doing so. "What did it taste like?"

Winnie glanced over his shoulder, confused. "What?"

Freddie clutched onto the bars. His hands wrapped firmly around the metal. "I said, what did it taste like? You are convicted of murder, and cannibalism. What did brains feel like? Warm?"

"How did you know that?"

"Tell me Winnie, are you sorry for what you did?"

Winnie frowned. "Of course I'm sorry. I'm on Death Row for god sakes."

"Did it feel good to kill them? Did it feel good to eat them?"

"Yes!" exclaimed Winnie. "It felt absolutely great!"

Freddie locked his eyes with Winnie. He stared deep into his soul; like he was sucking the life right out of him. "Then why are you sorry?"

Winnie was speechless. What was he supposed to say?

Freddie continued, "If it felt so good, why are you sorry?" He took another breath, "If you can answer that question Winnie, then you are truly sorry for what you did. Let me tell you from my standpoint."

"Enlighten me!" Winnie yelled, wakening Alex from his constant slumber.

Freddie slightly tilted his head. "I'm not sorry for what I did. In my point of view, those sixty plus people had it coming. The world didn't need crazy activists like them; not when the world was still recovering from the war." He ascended, still clutching the bars, banging his head against them. "But I'm not sorry, because it made me feel good. How can a drug addict stop? He can't. Not when he feels good as he does it; so why stop? There is a saying I go by: if you are going to die, die by doing something you love. Don't you agree?"

Winnie bit his tongue, agreeing with his point of view.

"Are you afraid of dying?" Freddie hurled the question.

Alex's voice echoed. "Stop it, Freddie."

Winnie ignored Alex, "I am, just like everybody else. And I am dying because of something I did."

"No," Freddie shook his head, and stalked around the cell. "You committed the crime, but you are dying as punishment for your actions; you are sorry. If I was shot on the spot at the massive suicide I took part in, I would have died knowing that I died by something I loved. In your case, you are dying because you are sorry."

Winnie clenched his fists; his knuckles turned white. "Fuck you," he cried.

Freddie laughed as he continued to speak, "If you can prove me wrong, then do so! You know that I am right!"

"Fuck you!"

Alex raised his voice. "Leave him the fuck alone, man!"

Alex received a heart piercing glare from Freddie instead; it felt like he was being stabbed with a dagger. He drew back in fear. He was afraid; even when he was protected behind bars.

The lights above started to flicker as the controversy heightened.

"Do you want to die, Winnie?" Freddie screamed.

"NO!"

"Then find a way not to die!" Freddie lowered his tone of voice; he became calm and collective once again.

Winnie clenched his jaw. "The only way is to get out of this hell hole."

Freddie winked. "You die in two hours. Only two guards will come back to greet you in ten minutes. Boss Howell and Terwilliger will still be accompanying the electric chair. That just leaves boss Edgecomb, and Stanton."

Winnie shook his head. "I cannot do that. I wouldn't get very far."

Freddie disapproved. "Ten minutes is a long time."

Suddenly, a long key was thrown across the mile, sliding perfectly under Winnie's cell; it lightly touched the tip of his toes.

Freddie placed his hands upon his hips. "It's up to you."

Winnie raised an eyebrow.

Freddie answered the question that was playing in Winnie's mind. "The guards walk past me every day and night, and yet cannot feel their items being stolen from their pockets."

"That's where you got the handcuffs," Alex murmured under his breath.

"Hurry," Freddie started, "Ten minutes is a long time, but can pass quickly."

Quick as a flash, Winnie got up and wrapped his right arm around the bars, finding the key hole. He placed the key firmly inside, and slowly unlocked the door. Like a serpent, he slid from the opened cell, and crawled down the green linoleum. Once he reached the main desk, he glanced both ways, making sure the guards weren't coming out from the execution room. He examined the door on the other side; it wouldn't be long before they returned. Winnie gazed upon the desk, and observed a gun. He snatched it, placed it behind the back of his trousers; and exited the prison with a BANG!

* * *

The guards on E block heard the sound clear as a whistle; they stared at each other for a couple of seconds. They had almost finished cleaning, and putting up chairs in the execution room; and the many people ready to witness the convict in the electric chair would be at the prison in less than two hours. They waited a moment until all was quiet, too quiet. Without another thought, the four guards quickly hustled from the execution room, and sprinted into the mile. Paul's first instinct was to check the prisoners. See if there was any confrontation between them; or if one of them was hurting themselves because of the constant strain they were under. Paul peeked into the first cell; Alex was quiet as a mouse; yet attentive. Paul continued to run down the Green Mile, and found one of the inmates screaming at the top of his lungs. "Boss, boss, he couldn't handle it!" Paul snatched his baton from its holster and hit the bars.

"Jesus," Paul started. "What in Christ's name are you yelling about?"

"Paul!" Brutal shouted from the other side of the room. His voice echoed.

"What?" he glanced over at his three coworkers who were now a whiter shade of pale.

"The gun is gone."

Paul focused back onto Freddie, who was pointing over Paul's shoulder. "Boss, he's gone! He's gone!"

Paul shifted his body 180 degrees, and stared in absolute horror; staring into an empty cell. He slowly looked down at his feet, only to find a key on the floor. Paul had never sprinted so hard in his life. He ran to the steel door, where Winnie exited, and fiercely opened it.

Harry spoke, "Paul, what's wrong?"

Paul bolted out of the prison; the other guards didn't question. Instead, they followed; all pulling their revolvers from their belts. All four guards looked around the prison yard in the dark. There was no sight of the escapee.

The sound of a gunshot was heard. The four guards twisted their heads in several directions, trying to figure out where the shot had been fired. Paul peered at a spotlight; which was now placed into one position. He drew towards the light; the others quickly trailed behind. As they turned the corner, they found an empty area in the yard by a barbed wire fence. And just below the fence, there was a silhouette. The guards had their guns raised above their heads. As they drew closer and closer towards the figure, their eyes widened as they observed a body, crumpled onto the gravel; not moving. They didn't say much; they just stared at the body.

Finally, Dean broke the silence. "Oh, shit."

Winnie didn't get very far that night. He had beaten the main security, but couldn't stand up to the fence; it was more than ten feet high. At the top were razor sharp barbs that could cut a man's hand to scraps. As he climbed the fence, the light of doom had spotted him; and in less than two seconds, a sniper attacked Winnie from behind. He died instantly, and hit the hard ground with a large THUMP! He died an hour before his execution; and they all knew that both the witnesses and the Warden would not be pleased.

* * *

On the inside, Alex collapsed leaning against the bars, weeping. Both Freddie and Alex heard the piercing gunshot, and knew that Winnie was dead. Alex was shocked at first, but then realized that a close friend of his was killed in an instant; life can be so cruel. Freddie was the exact opposite; he was pleased with himself. His back was against the wall in proper stature, and he stared down at poor Alex; who was new to the world of life and death. He had a different perspective on how one's decisions can affect an individual's fate. If Winnie wouldn't have attempted the escape, he would have died peacefully. Alex glanced upwards, growling at Freddie from under his breath; Freddie could hear the other prisoner loud and clear.

"What?" Freddie started, "I'm just doing what I love, and I'm not sorry about it."

Just then, Freddie pulled a cigarette and a lighter from under his pillow. He placed the cigarette into his mouth, and lit it. He inhaled and exhaled the drug slowly, "Now you are the first to know Alex."

Alex breathed quickly. Tears strode down his face, he couldn't help it. It was too much all at once.

Freddie stared at Alex with a disinterested expression; not one emotion withdrew from his face. It scared Alex, it scared him good. "Alexander, now you know just how dangerous I can be."

* * *

_Chapter five is next..._


	5. Playing With the Mind Part 2:

**AN: R&amp;R!**

* * *

Playing With the Mind Part 2:

The guards returned in a haze; they didn't know what to do next. They were still trying to comprehend what had just occurred. A man practically committed suicide that night before his execution. It angered the guards, for how could they not have prevented such an action from happening? Harry and Brutal slowly marched past Alex. Harry noticed that his eyes were puffy and red; as if he was crying. They inspected Winnie's former cell; Brutal snatched the key from the floor. The guards were curious as to how on earth a simple key could have slipped from under their grasp, and into the hands of a cannibalistic murderer. Brutus scanned the environment surrounding him, and witnessed what Harry saw in Alex; he was fearful and distant, huddled by the cell bars, escaping from all reality. He focused his attention towards Freddie; who calmly returned a pained expression. The two prisoners knew that there would be an investigation, and that various questions would need answering; not just from the guards or reporters, but from the crime unit.

Paul casually stepped in Alex's direction, and knelt to his level. Brutal slid the magic key into Paul's hand. Paul elevated the key at eye level; he breathed deeply before speaking. "You know what this is?"

Alex replied, his voice dry and raspy. "Yeah, it's a key."

Paul wrinkled his nose. "And what does this key do?"

Alex hesitated to answer; hoping that he was providing the right answer. "It opens something."

"Like a door?"

Alex slowly nodded, while staring at the green linoleum.

"Alex, there is always a witness in a crime. This is a brutal offense. Now, can you tell me how on earth Winnie was able to get his hands on this key?"

Alex peered over Paul's shoulder, gawking at Freddie, who was staring creepily with his silver eyes. The two prisoners had made a pact. Winnie threw the first punch, they were just innocent bystanders told to shut up. As long as Freddie didn't get into serious trouble over the situation, then Alex would be protected from harm. In that case, Freddie would make sure that the mind's eye wouldn't overpower Alex like it did to Winnie. The mind is a powerful weapon, and Freddie knew that, that power should never go to waste.

Alex lied, "Winnie stole the key from you guys when you were not looking. It must have been another guard, because his back was foolishly close to his cell. He just reached out, snatched it, and hid it under his pillow case."

This was all too familiar with Dean.

Paul continued questioning, "Why didn't you tell any of us, if you saw it happen?"

Alex didn't know what to say; he was backed into a corner. Freddie decided to intervene. "I saw it too boss. The reason I didn't get you guys was because I wanted to teach you all a lesson." Freddie turned his head towards Dean; he shuddered. "Take good care of your stuff, because one day you may get stabbed in the back; or worse, shot."

Brutal took a hold of Paul's arm, and murmured into his closest ear. "So what are we going to do?"

Paul puckered his lips. "Well, the whole prison heard the shot. It isn't unlikely that Hal already knows."

"They'll want to do an investigation."

Harry grew worried; an investigation wasn't the most welcoming thing in the world. Especially if the human race knew that a prisoner was able to pick pocket a key when their backs were turned. Brutus saw the worry upon Harry's face; he accompanied him. "They will ask further questions to the inmates. If Freddie stays true to his word, and says that the mistake wasn't on our hands, then it will be a message directed to all guards. This isn't the first time something like this has happened on Cold Mountain prison; just not on the Green Mile."

Brutus' reassuring was enough to convince Harry that nobody's jobs were on the line; something like this was extremely rare. It was chaotic, and a constant freak show. Brutal saw Paul, and noticed that he wasn't worried in the slightest; which reassured Brutal himself. He breathed a sigh of relief.

Paul spoke, "Well, he's dead. And we carry on with our lives."

* * *

That night, Harry got an unexpected surprise; he was to work the night shift. In return, he would have all of Sunday off; the day of Paul's dinner invitation that he accepted long ago. He found himself at the desk, still shaken by the incident that occurred only a few hours ago. The investigators arrived earlier, questioning the Warden, the sniper who killed Winnie, and the prisoners on E block. It was a surprise that none of guards on the mile were questioned. Freddie stayed true to his word like Brutal said. It was three o' clock in the morning, and each minute did not pass quickly. He was alone on the mile; which was considered dangerous, but he doubted that anything out of the ordinary would occur. He was actually pleased that some excitement finally came back into their jobs. It was an adrenaline rush so powerful that his hands were still shaking. The death of Winnie was a cruel tragedy, yet he couldn't help, but smile.

After working long and hard on what he does best; paperwork, Harry decided to take a quick lunch break. He swiveled his body around, and grabbed his silver lunch box. He slammed it against the table. After opening the box, he withdrew a sandwich, fruits, vegetables and a small carton of milk. As he took a bite of his sandwich, he decided to peer at his personal paperwork. The crash was taking a toll on his bank statements, and if he didn't close his accounts soon, he could potentially be in debt. The crisis unnerved everyone in some sort of way. In Harry's case, he was extremely anxious. He bottled his emotions frequently, causing him to explode over the tiniest of situations. He scared his wife last night, and felt terrible afterwards. He'd been married for twenty five years, and snapping at his wife for something totally unrelated to his financial problems was unacceptable. He never raised a hand to the very woman he loved before; it was his first time. Harry never mentioned their financial crisis; it was the cherry on top. Harry convinced himself that he would tell his wife about their bank statements before dinner at Paul's, or else trust issues would ensue if she found out by surprise. Harry scanned his accounts, and nothing was getting any better; everything seemed to be getting worse. He licked his fingers before flipping the page, and discovered a family portrait of his wife and three daughters attached to the page with a paper clip. The picture was taken five years ago, and hasn't been updated since, but it was still the family that Harry loved and treasured to this day. Harry managed to walk all three of his girls down the aisle, and it still pained him to this day. He missed them. But he didn't fail at being a caring father and a loyal husband; he was proud of that.

Whistling was heard at the far end of the mile. Harry slowly removed the glasses from his face and gazed into the distance. He knew that Alex was in a deep slumber, so Freddie was the only one making unnecessary noise. He couldn't carry a tune whether his life depended on it. Harry was too tired and lazy to get up from the chair, "Shut the hell up, Freddie!"

Freddie stopped. "Boss, I need to talk to you."

Harry shook his head, "I'm not interested." He picked up a quill, dipped it in ink, and began writing on a piece of parchment.

Freddie was persistent. "No, I really need to talk to you."

"About what," questioned Harry. "What would you possibly need?"

"What crawled up your butt and died?" the inmate scowled.

"Sorry," Harry hesitantly apologized, "I'm having some issues right now."

Freddie took advantage of the situation. "What kind of issues?"

"Nothing of your concern, got it?" Harry placed a small mug in front, and poured alcohol into the glass. Drinking alcohol during working hours was an offense, but it had been a long and stressful day. He needed to drown his many sorrows as quickly as possible. Harry never drank, so the gin was probably over twenty years old.

Freddie pressed his face against the bars, seeing with his parallel vision, the alcohol. "Boss, can I have some?"

Harry took a swig and laughed aloud.

The prisoner continued, "It looks like you had a long and stressful day; with Winnie's death and all of your…bank problems."

Harry sat frozen in his chair, "How did you know about that?"

"I observed you well, and noticed that anytime somebody brought up the issue of finances, or even the possibility of losing your job, it worries you, and stresses you out. You need to learn how to relax. If you keep this up, you are going to die of a heart attack way before your fifties." Freddie admitted.

Harry angrily rose from the desk, and hurried to Freddie's cell. He stopped in front, and pointed a finger. "What do you know? Right now, you've got it easy. You are getting free food, health care, and you get a bed to sleep on every night until you die! Unlike you, I've got to fight for it."

Freddie shrugged, "It doesn't concern me, but it seems that you don't express your emotions often."

Harry nodded, and looked down at his feet. "I don't."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Harry didn't want to talk about it. In fact, he wanted to walk away, but he needed somebody to talk to. A murderer or not, the man was still willing to listen. Harry stayed firm in his position and started to speak about his private matters. It was against the rules, but Harry didn't care at this point; everything was going to shambles.

But in mid-sentence, he changed his mind. "No."

Freddie tilted his head upwards, staring at the ceiling. "I see that you are a married man."

Harry scratched his head in irritation. "Yes, I am a married man; twenty five years and counting."

Freddie raised both eyebrows. "Congratulations, and you have children?"

He shook his head up and down. "Yes, I have three girls. They are all married now."

Freddie smiled with satisfaction. "Boss, the way I see it you are very stressed and anxious. It's tearing you apart. I believe that it affects your family regardless of whether you are humble or not."

Harry clenched his fists. "Are you saying that I abuse them?"

Freddie shifted his eyes to the side. "Not particularly. You are a humble and gentle human being. I couldn't see you doing such a thing."

"Because I don't," Harry cut into the conversation.

"Do you love them?"

"What kind of god damn question is that? I love all my girls." Harry paused to catch his breath. "If I lost any of them, I wouldn't know what to do."

Freddie shot his arms into the air, and stretched. Was he mocking Harry? "I guess that is up to you." A shiver ran down Freddie's spine. "I sense that a bad aura is in the air."

Harry shook his head in disbelief, "Why am I talking to this guy?"

"The bank will swallow you whole. If that happens, don't take it out on your family." Freddie placed the tip of his fingers underneath his chin, focusing his attention back onto the brick wall.

The offender made Harry seem like an asshole, but that was not the case. Again, he was a humble and gentle human being. Like Brutal, he wouldn't dare hurt a fly; he just did his job. Every now and then, fights between him and his wife would occur over the strangest things. But they would forgive each other in the end. Many couples disagreed; it's what tests the relationship. Freddie said the weirdest things. Did he really sense that an unfortunate event would occur at the mile, in his life, or in the world? Harry didn't have a clue what the man was talking about in the slightest; to him, it was all garbage. Harry sighed, and slowly walked away from the cell; thinking about his family, and how he couldn't wait to go home, and caress his loving wife in his arms. As he left the scene, Freddie piped up again. Harry rolled his eyes, annoyed.

"Can I still have some of that drink?"

Harry glimpsed at the glass of alcohol clenched inside his fists; he thought to himself. He never drank, and he was doing so because of a bad day? It was a terrible habit that one may never break. He was disappointed and disgusted in himself for doing so. Harry nonchalantly made his way to the washroom, and dumped the remainder of the alcohol into the sink; he washed it away with water. When all was said and done, he threw the mug into the nearest trash container, and carried on with his work at the desk.

* * *

Paul remained at home, assisting his wife, who was preparing the feast for Sunday evening. The dinner was a gathering of friends and family; something that they seldom did, three times a year maybe. There was going to be at least thirteen people attending the dinner; and enough food to feed sixty individuals. Brutal, Harry, Mary, Dean, his wife Emily and two young children, Paul, Jan, his son, accompanied with his wife, and Hal and Melinda Moore. Paul's son was in town, running his own errands; while his wife was helping Paul and Jan around the house for the dinner. It was a barbeque more or less. Steak, lobster, potatoes, gravy, steamed vegetables, homemade soup and bread, fruit platters, and two apple pies were to be served. Paul wasn't sure whether or not there would be leftovers, but if there was, there would be enough to feed everyone at E block for at least a good week. The Edgecomb family was pleased with the result, and they were expecting guests at any moment.

Jan rubbed the back of her hand against Paul's shoulder; who was staring out of the kitchen window. "Honey, what are you thinking about?"

Paul fully buttoned his dress shirt to the collar, and wrapped a blue tie around his neck. It was going to be a dry and humid evening; he didn't want to dress too formal. Janice wore a beautiful blue sun dress with sunflowers sewn around the hem. She wore a sunhat over her blonde hair, and looked as beautiful as ever in Paul's eyes. He was a lucky man to be married to such a gorgeous woman; and some days, he wasn't able to comprehend it. "I'm thinking about the wonderful time that we are all going to have tonight."

Janice grinned, "I'm sure it will. Come along, we haven't finished."

A loud knock roared throughout the Edgecomb residence.

"I'll get it," Paul shouted as he burst to the door. He quickly opened it, and found Brutus with a small pot in his hands. He was wearing dress pants, and a green shirt accessorized with a black tie. He was sweating along the forehead; it was most likely a result from the constant heat. He bent forward, walking inside the large house; Paul was filled with glee.

"Hello Paul," Brutal greeted with a raspy voice. "Wonderful day, isn't it?"

"Sure is," Paul replied.

Brutal coughed slightly, "Where's your boy? I didn't see his truck on the dirt."

"Oh, he's in town running a couple of errands. His wife is here though." Paul stated as he tossed a thumb over his shoulder. "What's that?" He pointed at the pot in Brutal's hands.

Brutus gawked down at the pot, "Oh, cabbage rolls."

"Did you make them yourself?" Paul questioned jokingly.

Brutal chuckled. "A single man can cook, Paul." He coughed again as he followed Paul into the main kitchen area.

Paul spoke aloud, "Brutus is here."

Janice quickly spun on her heels, facing Brutus. She clamped her hands against his cheeks, and kissed both sides. "It's good to see you again," she smiled. Paul loved it when she smiled.

"Where should I put this?" Brutal asked.

Jan tucked in a lone strand of hair behind her ear. "Just place it on the counter. Now you boys go outside, and get the grill going."

And both Paul and Brutus did so. They shared a beer together as they huddled around the barbeque, cooking cow. The slabs of meat were marinated the night before with several herbs and spices that no man could resist. It smelt even more decadent while placed on the heated grill. The two boys stared into the wheat field, enjoying the skyline during its sunset. Once the dinner was complete, Paul planned on using the fire pit; this time, hoping that the flames wouldn't get out of hand. Brutal shared a long glance at Paul before speaking.

"What're you thinking about?"

"About work," Paul answered quickly.

Brutal raised an eyebrow, "You do know that we try not to talk about the mile after work hours." He took a swig of beer.

Paul nodded in agreement. "I agree. We can discuss it over a plate of leftovers tomorrow."

Brutus rubbed the side of his head, "So, how's your family?"

"Good," Paul started. "My boy just married."

"Yeah, I heard," Brutus commented. He had remembered that the marriage was small and was in secrecy, but Paul still approved of the woman. "Why didn't he invite you to the wedding?"

"He's nineteen, Brutal."

Brutal shook his head. "So? You were nineteen when you got married."

"But unlike me, he's still in school."

Brutus sighed, "What's he taking again, law?"

Paul downed half the bottle of beer, before flipping the steaks on their backside. "He wants to be a lawyer."

"There's nothing wrong with that." Brutal gazed down at the meat on the grill; the smell was overwhelming.

"That's almost eight years of school, and he's married now." Paul paused for a moment. Brutal grew concerned for his long-time friend. "We are in a depression. And his wife barely has a stable job."

"It's his life," Brutus started, "And he's an adult. We will have our own opinions, but we can only guide our children so far. Kids make mistakes, and this might be a hard lesson to learn. And when they do finally realize that they made a huge mistake, we can't say I told you so. Like you said, our job at the prison is talking, not yelling. That goes the same for kids, when we have to teach them the right from the wrong."

Paul was impressed with Brutal's lecture. There was a reason that he was Paul's best friend; when in doubt, go to Brutus for advice. "Why aren't you a father?"

"Not everyone has to be."

Paul snickered as he took another gulp of beer. "So, how are things with you?"

Brutal furrowed his brows, "My life is pretty god damned boring." He coughed again.

"You got a tickle in your throat?"

Brutal placed a large hand on his chest. "You could say that. It'll go away eventually."

There was an awkward silence, but it wasn't long before Brutal's voice came into play.

"I'm concerned about something, Paul."

Paul focused his complete attention towards Brutus. "What are you concerned about?"

"Dean."

Paul was shocked to hear such a thing come from Brutal's mouth. "Why, what's wrong with Dean?"

Brutus wiped the sweat along his forehead. "He snapped at me."

Paul stared back at the steaks. "It's not like Dean, but every man is under strain at some point in his life. He's probably tired" –

"No, Paul." Brutal interrupted, "This is different. I asked him to do a simple task, and you know what he did? He gave me a five minute lecture on his duties at Cold Mountain. He feels inferior to all of us. He practically boycotted his whole shift! I wouldn't be surprised if the kid decided to go on strike."

Paul shifted his eyes from side to side. "That isn't like Dean at all."

"After his shift, he apologized." Brutal finished his beer. "Dean is an easy going guy who goes with the flow. And I appreciate his hard work and company. But I've been thinking…" Brutal trailed off, thinking through his thoughts before saying them.

Paul grew irritated, "Spit it out."

"To me, Winnie's death is suspicious. He didn't seem like the man who would try to escape the vicinity hours before his demise."

Paul answered, "I'm sure that any convict there would do anything to escape Death Row."

Brutal bore a gloomed expression, "That may be true Paul, but you have to hear me out. Deans irritated, Harry's anxiety has shot through the roof, and Winnie's death seemed coincidental. They are all linked somehow; and someone isn't speaking aloud."

Paul cut into one of the steaks; checking its consistency. "What is your hypothesis?"

Brutal shrugged, "I'm sure one will come to mind, eventually."

"But there are no hard feelings between you and Dean?"

Brutal smirked, "Hell no, it's just work. What happens on the mile stays on the mile; always has."

A woman's voice was heard from behind.

"A guest is here!"

"Tell them we are outside!" Paul answered.

"Will do," the woman shouted back before entering the house once again.

* * *

_Chapter six is next..._


	6. A Wonderful Dinner

**AN: Please R&amp;R! Follow and Favourite too. :D**

**Take care lovelies!**

* * *

A Wonderful Dinner:

It wasn't long before Dean and his family arrived at the Edgecomb residence. Unlike everyone else in the room, they were a very young family. Dean and his wife were in their early twenties; while their children were approximately around the ages of eight and nine. Paul had gone through the early childhood phase, and knew that young children needed their minds and bodies occupied in some sort of way; usually by playing games with themselves, or with other children and adults. A treehouse and swing still stood its ground in their backyard, but it was a little rusty; though it was still good for playing, and wonderful for the memories that it treasured. Dean and his family walked out onto the patio, greeting Paul inches from the door; Brutal took charge of the barbeque.

"Good evening, Dean." Paul started, shaking Dean's hand with a firm grip. "Good evening Emily."

"Good evening Mr. Edgecomb," Emily spoke in a soft and quiet tone. Her southern accent was heavy; sometimes it was hard to understand the words she said. Emily turned her attention towards Brutus. "Hello Mr. Howell."

Dean waved a hand, "Hey Brute, what cha' cooking?"

"None of your business…it's a surprise."

"Hell it's a surprise," Dean laughed. "Steaks, awe damn they smell fine."

Brutal dusted the charcoal from his hands, and turned to the Stanton family. He gazed down at the two children at either side of their mother's hips. Children were rather shy when surrounded by adults; Brutal knew this from past experiences. It was odd though; he thought that to a child, a man his stature would be deemed terrifying, but their thoughts were the exact opposite. Most youngsters saw Brutal as a big, huggable teddy bear. Last year, Dean's offspring followed the big man wherever he went; it annoyed him considerably. After constant pestering, he finally gave in to their demands. They all enjoyed a quick gamed of tag, hide and go seek, and Brutus even taught the children how to perfect the art of smores by the campfire. He terrified the children with clichéd ghost stories; but all in all, it was one of the best times of Brutal's life. It had been a full year since the children parted Brutus; however, nothing changed in the slightest. They were older now, but they still trusted Brutus; as a friend and playmate; it amused both Dean and Paul. Emily released the two kids from her grasp. "You can go play now," she said to them gently. The children directed their attention towards Brutal. They latched onto his arm, and dragged him away from the very job that he was given.

Dean smiled with glee, "Alexandra and Blaire will keep him occupied for some time."

"Hey kids," Paul shouted. He was able to get their full cooperation. "There's a playground on the other side of the house!"

There was a sparkle in each of their eyes when the thought of a play structure entered their complex minds. Brutal looked at Dean and Emily, he winked. "Call us when dinner is ready."

Paul stood by the barbeque, and noticed that the steaks were ready to be served. Janice was boiling the lobsters inside the house. Emily joined along with the other women. They chatted about world problems; mainly the economic crisis currently storming the world. Some of the women were as quiet as a mouse, whereas others couldn't learn to shut their mouths. Paul enjoyed their company though. Hal and Melinda Moores were the next popular guests to arrive, and approximately half an hour later, Harry and his wife, Mary Terwilliger, decided to attend the festivity. Paul's son arrived minutes after, kissing his dear wife before mingling amongst the other men, with a beer in hand.

When the food and china was set, the guests seated themselves at a large table outside. They seized each other's hands before the meal, and said a quick blessing. It was a prayer to remind everybody that they were the lucky ones. Unfortunately, the unlucky ones in the world were starving amidst the streets; suffering from poor economics. Afterwards, the guests snatched the various foods along the table, and moved in a counter clockwise direction. Everybody carried casual discussions. Harry, Dean, Hal and Paul discussed modern sports; whilst the women chatted about the latest movies; and how cute the latest actors were compared to their own husbands. Paul's son sat beside Dean's kids at the "kiddie table"; Brutal was alongside them as well. Brutus had known Paul's son since the kid was ten years of age. The two hadn't seen each other for over five years, so catching up on life, school and sports were the main subjects of the conversation. They also kept the children in company; Dean's children clung onto Brutus like leeches.

"Brutus," Alexandra yelled. "Do you have any brothers, because I don't like them?"

Brutal laughed. "No I don't have any brothers, or sisters, but enjoy each other's company, because one day, when your sister gets a boyfriend, you can drive him out of the house."

Alexandra bore a face of repulsion. Her tongue escaped her lips. "Boys are gross! I'm never going to get married!"

Blaire copied his sister's expression. "Girls are gross too!"

"Okay, kids settle down."

"Why are you so tall?" Blaire suddenly questioned. The question was so unexpected that Brutal was lost for words.

He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed alongside his forehead; which was now sweating uncontrollably. Two young kids, plus the sun wasn't a good sum. He coughed slightly before continuing to eat his mountain of food placed onto his platter.

The scene moved to Dean, Harry, Paul and Hal. Paul turned to Dean and smiled. "Your kids are the cutest things in the world. They are going to keep Brutal occupied all night long."

Dean took the bowl of scalloped potatoes, and shoveled them onto his plate. "Yeah, they are a handful, but I love them. Emily and I are thinking of another one."

Paul raised an eyebrow, and gawked at Dean, "Another child?"

Dean nodded, "Yeah, what's wrong with that?"

Hal took a large bite of steamed vegetables, and wiped his mouth politely, "Nothing Mr. Stanton. It's just…do you really want to raise another child in hard economic times such as this?"

Paul agreed, "It's inconvenient."

Dean chuckled. "Having kids is always inconvenient, whether you like it or not."

Harry agreed with Dean's side of the argument. He had three girls of his own; it was inconvenient at the time, all the time, but they got past that obstacle; and he loved them very much. Paul nodded before taking a sip of wine, "What's wrong with you Dean? You seem a little uptight?"

Dean furrowed his eyebrows in frustration. "No, it's nothing."

Paul rolled his eyes and locked his with Hal's, who was finished his meal. Hal peered at his wife, Melinda. They had places to go, and other people to see. "Paul, it was a wonderful meal, but Melinda and I must be leaving. Thank you for having us over; I'll see you at work."

Paul bobbed. "See you tomorrow."

Hal gently took his wife's hand, and wandered off in the distance; the house now blocking the view of the couple. It wasn't long before they were seen down the graveled road; dirt trailing behind them. Paul turned back to face his company, Dean in particular, "What's wrong with you, boy? I hear from Brutal that you snapped at him, gave him a five minute lecture on how our jobs are supposed to be done."

Dean huffed, "It's not about the job; it's about how the people should be treated. Like a democracy."

Paul stared at Dean in shock. "The workforce is a democracy, not a dictatorship. I'm just your supervisor."

Dean responded without hesitation. "Then how come I'm still being treated like a baby. I've been at the mile for more than five years. The least you could do, is give me some respect."

Paul shook his head in disbelief. "Son, we give you all the respect you deserve. And how am I supposed to do that when you are giving me attitude like this? Dean, I've been working at the mile for as long as I can remember, and I'm still learning. We don't make you climb ladders for punishment. We do it, so that you can get a sense of responsibility. You won't be able to hold a key, until you prove to all three of us that you are a responsible human being."

Dean snarled. "So that's it then? When the Warden asks you who should be canned out of the four of us, the first will be me; because obviously, I'm not responsible enough."

Harry became the voice of reason. "Dean, shut up. For just one second, shut up. We don't mean it like that. But you did spark my curiosity." Paul's ears perked. "I've noticed some sort of personality change in the last week; did something cause that change?"

Dean scratched the side of his head; he should have told them sooner, but he was still tentative. "I'm sorry guys. I'm just worried about losing my job, and I'm worried about foreclosure." Dean stabbed his fork into the beets violently. Harry bore a worried expression. Something was bothering the poor boy. Paul started to believe Brutal when he said that Dean's sudden anger issues, Harry's major anxiety and Winnie's attempted escape from Death Row was linked together in some way. Something strange was occurring within the mile; it was infectious and spreading fast. Paul wouldn't be surprised if the next victim was Brutus; but either way, Paul was going to investigate the difficulties, and find out why, how and when these controversies first entered into the Green Mile.

* * *

It was approximately nine o' clock at night, and the campfire was set; the flames dancing amidst the darkness. Dean's youngest, Blaire, was slowly falling asleep by each passing minute, and the family thought that it was a good idea to hit the hay; for it was past the children's bedtime. The problem was that Alexandra was on Brutal's lap, finishing up their third round of smores; and she insisted on staying put. It took a while for Dean to finally convince his daughter that it was a school night, and that she needed to go to bed, because her father had to work early the next day. Dean drove both his children to school every morning, before work. They were great kids! They never got into any trouble, and listened to their parents; even when they disagreed with some of their rules and decisions. The other women were confined inside the house; gossiping over a nice cup of coffee. Paul's son had to catch a plane early the next morning, for he had school to attend the following day. Outside, by the fire were Paul, Brutal and Harry. Brutus was still busy roasting marshmallows, while Harry tightly wrapped a blanket around his shoulders; holding a mug of coffee. All three grown men glowered into the fire, enjoying the heat, and watching the sparks soar into the night's sky. Paul smiled at his friends beside him. They all shared their beams of joy; all relishing the time that they shared together. It was a time where everyone could escape politics and work, and focus on what was most important in life; friends and family.

When the party was finally over, and all went their separate ways; Paul sat on the living room sofa, with an arm around his wife. They both sat in complete silence, focusing on the mantle; which was full of pictures, and vases. They reminisced the night that they adored with their family and friends. Paul whispered into his wife's ear, "We should do that again sometime."

Janice smiled, and once again, the two were together in peace.

* * *

The sun slowly rose on an early Wednesday morning. It had rained the night before, creating a chill in the morning air. Fortunately, the sun would reach its peak, and the heat would radiate to Earth; causing distress to the farmers, and pleasure to ordinary civilians. Drops of excess rain still clung to the flowers, bushes and trees in the fields. It was a beautiful morning, and a perfect one for a morning ride.

Cassandra Casselii loved to ride every morning and night. Her husband owned a farm approximately half an hour outside of town. They harvested oats, and barely every year. She tended the garden, while he tended the tractors and wheat fields. Every day, Cassandra would find the time to take a stroll down the lake, and the gardens surrounding it. Cassandra trotted down a long graveled road, gawking at the beautiful trees and other assortments of vegetation as she passed by. The young woman continued further. Sometimes her husband would ride beside her in the evening, and then make love. Cassandra loved her life as a whole. She had a caring and respectful husband, a beautiful farm, in a beautiful state.

But something ensued that morning. Something hiding within the bushes seemed to have spooked the strong horse. It was nothing but a mere gopher, but to her stallion, it was a monster. It took Cassandra by surprise for she didn't know what had spooked the animal at the time. It wasn't long before the horse jumped onto its hind legs, screaming into the thin air. Cassandra was thrown from the back of the steed; she landed onto her spine with sheer force. But it didn't stop there. The petite gopher continued to scurry, causing the horse to stir into another panic attack. It kicked its legs back and forth, attempting to kill the enemy, but instead, colliding with Cassandra's beautiful face as she tried to stand up from the fall. She was knocked unconscious, but the horse was still extremely alarmed. While the young woman lay unconscious upon the gravel, the uncontrollable animal continued to kick, jumping like a bull in a rodeo. The steed trampled upon Cassandra's complexion. After what seemed like minutes, yet was seconds, the horse stopped, and slightly tapped Cassandra's side. She rolled over, revealing her face; which was covered in blood. Her skull was crushed, making the young woman unrecognizable to a random bystander, let alone a relative. Cassandra Casselii lay halfway into the nearest ditch, limp as a noodle and motionless. The stallion casually walked away; continuing down the road as if nothing had occurred; leaving the lifeless body alone in the dirt.

* * *

Harry Terwilliger ate breakfast alone, near the kitchen's island. His wife, Mary Terwilliger, was a receptionist for the nearest hospital. She did shift work, but her hours were very steady; the mornings usually. Harry didn't work until ten that day, making him selfish enough to sleep in. He wandered around the kitchen, cleaning up the mess he previously made before leaving for work. He was somewhat dressed in uniform. His white dress shirt was buttoned to the collar, and was accessorized with a black tie. He wore his black work uniform pants that were held in place by dark red suspenders. As he cleaned the kitchen, he continued to eat his breakfast, consisting of only white bread and eggs. Harry peered out the kitchen window and observed the sunny morning before him; it was going to be a humid day. He'd have to pack large amounts of water; of course he would be the one prepared; for the others often "forgot." Harry glanced at a small hand clock. It was almost nine thirty; his shift started in half an hour. Harry grasped the dish towel hanging from his shoulder, and neatly placed it on the countertop.

Then a continuous ring was heard throughout the kitchen. Harry turned towards the phone. He let it ring a few times, contemplating whether or not he should answer it. The ringing would not cease.

"Terwilliger residence," he finally answered. "Yes, this is Harry Terwilliger."

* * *

_Chapter seven is next..._

**AN: While you are waiting why not drop a review! It will only take two seconds! Hope you enjoyed this chapter!**


	7. Brutal vs Freddie Part 1:

**AN: Alright, sorry for the slow update, but I promise I'll be faster. School is a little hectic at the moment, but will ease up in the next week or so, YES! Hope you all are enjoying the story. Thank you to you readers, and for those who Favorited and reviewed thus far. Please Drop a review, all those who do will get imaginary cupcakes! LOL!**  
**Also reviews are greatly appreciated, because they really help with my writing, and whether or not the story is getting anywhere. If you as the audience have any suggestions, please feel free to let me know. I appreciate my readers, and will take their ideas into consideration. Also, if you are really enjoying it, please follow! **  
**Luv Y'all!**

_**P.S. I don't own the Green mile. **_

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Brutal vs Freddie part 1:

Paul Edgecomb and Brutal Howell both walked the mile, with a checklist in hand. They were completing an hourly cell check. Everything seemed up to snuff on the Green Mile. Alex was quiet as usual; and Freddie was staring at the ceiling, bored out of his mind. Paul sat at the desk, filing some paperwork. He shifted upwards and observed Brutal doing a thorough search throughout each cell. Brutus attempted to make conversation with Alex, but he was as quiet as a mouse; and wouldn't make a peep, a noise, nothing. It was odd. He used to answer the guards when he was asked a simple question, but nowadays, Alex was silent; as if there was something bothering him, someone making him shut up. Whatever was in the air that day; it wasn't right.

Brutal stopped at Freddie's cell. He was flat on his back, counting the many cracks on the ceiling. Brutus heard quiet speech escape Freddie's lips as he passed, "There's a strange aura in the air."

Brutal shook his head, ignoring every word of the inmate; some days, Freddie didn't make sense at all, and had nothing beneficial to say; yet he was an intelligent man. Brutal stopped and glanced at his pocket watch; it was ten thirty five.

"He's late." Brutal started in a raspy voice.

"Are you getting sick, Brutal?" Paul asked his friend.

Brutal wrinkled his nose, "It's nothing."

Paul sighed, and tossed the pen aside. He leaned back into his chair and folded his arms. "Yeah, he's late."

Just then, a small click was heard; and to no surprise, it was Harry. He was fully dressed in uniform. He walked incredibly slow, and gazed upon his feet as he drew closer towards his co-workers. Once Harry reached the desk, he gawked up at Paul. Paul grew concerned when he scanned the face of Harry Terwilliger. He usually had a smile smothered upon his face, or a neutral expression; but this face was grim. He was constantly shifting his eyes from side to side, and never mouthed a single word.

Paul took a deep breath before speaking, "You are late Mr. Terwilliger."

Harry nodded, and then slowly made his way towards the office. Both Paul and Brutal shared glances. He signalled his head towards the office.

"I'll take care of the mile," Brutal started, "I'll be fine." Brutal reached for a pen on the desk, and started writing upon a clipboard. Paul shifted his body forward, and soon found himself opening the closed door; observing Harry in the corner, staring at a piece of paper. Harry was beet red, as if he was trying to hold something in. His fists were clenched, and Paul could swear that tears were building up in his eyes. Harry relaxed when he realized that Paul was standing in the same room. He turned to his supervisor, and spread out his palms.

"I'm sorry boss," he started quietly. "I need to go home, I can't take it anymore."

"Are you sick?" Paul questioned. "If you are, you should have called in." Paul tried to be the voice of rationality, but Harry wasn't buying it. Harry just shook his head, and tucked in his lips.

"It's worse than sick," Harry started. His voice got quieter and quieter as his speech continued, making it hard for Paul to understand a single word.

"I'm sorry Harry, but you will have to speak up." Paul said, sounding irritable; even though he didn't mean it that way. But Harry didn't care.

Harry was lost for words, but he knew that he couldn't express the situation in any other way, except the simple, painful way. "Paul, there was a death in the family. I got a call half an hour before work."

Paul's heart dropped six feet. His pulse quickened, and he felt as if he was going to be sick. Paul asked the question, but he felt bad for it. You don't go asking that question when someone was in mourning. "I'm sorry, but if you don't mind me asking, who died?" The question sounded appalling, but Harry knew that every detail counted to Paul. He wasn't just his supervisor; he was a great friend who had stuck with him through every conflicting situation that came their way.

Harry swallowed a lone tear escaping his eye. The salty water strolled along his cheek, also dropping onto the papers by his hand. His voice cracked, the coarse words struggling to escape his lips, "My youngest, Cassandra."

Paul took a couple of deep breaths, and slowly walked towards his friend. "You don't have to talk about it."

Harry was quick to answer, "No Paul, I need to talk about it. I need to! I can't bottle up my emotions any longer." Harry tried to hold back the tears as best as he could; he hated showing weakness. He choked, "Her husband called this morning. You see, she likes to take her steed every morning and evening, and spend some quality time alone or with her husband out in the fields, and roads. This morning…the horse came back…but she didn't. It spawned worry on his face, when he looked at the hooves of the horse; which were covered in blood. The horse was tense…her husband had to leave the animal alone, he couldn't tame the creature." Harry paused, and bit his lip.

"Take your time," said Paul with warmth.

Harry nodded in return, "He took his car to look for her. She took the same path every day, so he knew that she couldn't have broken her pattern…" Harry trailed off, but he continued moments later. "He found her…he found her dead. The horse…the, the horse got spooked, and smashed my poor Cassandra's face. It's caved in, Paul." Harry buried his face into his hands; sobbing. He continued talking about the painful situation in which Paul just wanted to flee and hide in a corner. Harry's girls meant the world to him; Paul couldn't imagine losing a child, so young too. "Paul, I saw her. The horse smashed her skull. I didn't recognize her at first…you couldn't identify her. We did, because of the dress she wore, and the colour of her hair. There was blood…there was blood everywhere; on the ground, and seeping from her skull. Do you want to know what it looked like, Paul?"

Paul was silent. Harry continued to weep hysterically.

"It looked surreal. It looked like someone had smashed her skull with a sledgehammer, at least ten times. My baby girl…she's gone, and there's nothing I can do about it!"

Paul felt tears well up in the corners of his eyes. He couldn't imagine losing a child of his own; or even his wife by an unfortunate event. But watching a close friend of his in so much pain broke his heart even further. "Harry, why didn't you call in?"

Harry shrugged, "I don't know! I didn't have time!"

Paul blinked. He placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, and dropped to his knees. Paul embraced his friend in his arms, and squeezed him gently; reassuring him that the incident was unfortunate, but in the end, everything would be fine. It sounded horrible to someone in mourning, but Harry didn't mind. When a tragedy like this occurs, your world stops turning, and you don't give a damn about what people say at that moment, "Why Paul?" Harry whispered into Paul's ear. Paul didn't have an explanation.

"I don't know, Harry. Now, let's get you home. I'll let Hal know what's going on, and I'll phone you guys later today for work related business. Is that alright with you?"

Harry nodded. "Yes, Paul." He then stood upright, and grabbed his belongings. He quickly opened the office door, and bolted from E block. It was pain that no man could handle. Paul took several deep breaths, trying to regain his composure. Brutal stooped by the office, knocking slightly. Paul snapped his head towards the door.

"Brutal, I need to tell you something." There was no sense in hiding this from the second in command.

Brutus entered the room, and grabbed the nearest chair. Did he really want to know what was going on? He slumped over, staring at Paul directly in the eyes with a soft look in his face. His raspy, yet soft voice spoke aloud, "What's going on, Paul?"

Paul attempted to look away; the subject made him feel very uncomfortable. "Harry's youngest daughter out of the three passed away this morning."

Brutus' jaw dropped in utter shock.

Paul continued, "A horse bucked her. They could barely identify her. Harry said that it looked like someone had smashed her face in with a sledgehammer at least ten times." Paul leaned back in his chair, and stared at the many tiles. He couldn't imagine what Harry was going through at the moment; neither could Brutus.

"Jesus Christ," Brutal murmured, staring at Paul with crossed arms. He didn't move in the slightest. "What should we do, Paul?"

Paul shook his head, "I don't know Brutal. Let's just give him our condolences for now, and support him and his family in any way we can. See how life can throw curveballs at you?"

Brutus nodded, "His daughters and Mary mean the world to him." Brutal smiled as he reminisced, "I remember Cassandra. The first time I met her was when she was five years old. God, that makes me feel old. Her and her sisters were just the cutest kids on the face of the planet." He wiped his mouth which was covered in saliva and sweat. The sun was peeking through the blinds in the office, and it was small too, causing the heavily clothed guards to constantly gasp for air. "You and I also attended her high school graduation. She was by far the prettiest girl out of them all." Brutal's eyes became heavy in a matter of seconds, "It's hard to believe that she's gone now. How old was she?"

"Twenty-two," Paul answered, "The same fucking age as my boy."

Brutal rose from his chair. He heard commotion on the mile. It was most likely Freddie singing a tune. Brutal needed a quick escape, so he decided to do a quick cell check, leaving Paul in a dream state. He was thinking about life, most likely, and just how unfair it can be.

Brutus made his way towards the cells. He grabbed a clipboard along the way, and stopped at Alex's cell first. Brutal decided to make conversation once again, "Alex? Are you alright in there? You've been awfully quiet, and haven't eaten lately." He coughed before writing on the clipboard.

Alex shuffled his body, facing Brutus. Brutal's stomach felt like it was lodged in his throat; were those tears escaping the man's eyes? There were so many events unfolding, that he suddenly became confused. What was bothering the poor man? Brutal twisted towards Freddie's cell; of who was smiling gleefully while cleaning his fingernails. Freddie looked as if he hadn't slept in days, but Brutal still had his suspicions. Brutus slowly paced towards Freddie. He spoke, "Freddie, what are you saying to Alex? Did you upset him in any sort of way?"

Freddie avoided eye contact.

"You better speak to me Freddie, or I'll come in there and make you," Brutus threatened. Because of Freddie's physically challenged body, it didn't take long for him to talk.

"I didn't say anything. You know Alex…he never talks."

Brutal had no choice, but to agree.

But then Freddie brought up a quick subject to take his mind off of his suspicions. "You are very tall Boss Howell."

Brutal rolled his eyes. "Thank you captain obvious," he started. "So what is your point?" He stared back at his clipboard, the pen moving in several swift motions.

Freddie grinned. He grasped the cell bars tightly, and rested his forehead between them. "When did you get so tall?"

Brutal scoffed, "Grade eleven."

"Perfect," Freddie whispered. "You played football too."

Brutal quickly replied, "Yes."

Freddie paused for a moment or two before asking the question, "Why did you decide to work here? Was it because of your size, or was it because you were a college dropout?"

Brutal felt extremely offended. He turned his back, and started to walk away from the scene unfolding. "Where are you going Brutus? Don't tell me you are turning your back on me now. I asked you a simple question. Why did you choose this career?"

Brutal turned, and charged at Freddie. The inmate jumped slightly. "I'm here, because I was a college dropout, alright?"

"Tsk, Tsk Brutus. I know that." Freddie slowly wandered inside his cell; glaring at Brutus with his piercing eyes. It reminded him of Jack Van Hay's eyes; striking, but with a look to kill. "But as a drop out, you could have done anything. You could have worked on a farm that your father once owned; agriculture is a big business. You can count, can't you? Because of that, you could have easily worked as a teller at a local bank. Or you could have been a measly factory worker. But tell me Brutus; why did you decide to work at Death Row. Does it have anything to do with your stature, your personality, or the white crimes you once committed? What is it Brutus?"

Brutal tilted his head to the side with a frown; Freddie did the same, except with a neutral expression plastered onto his face. "I knew it," Brutal whispered, but Freddie could hear it as clear as day. The convict ignored him though, and carried on with his measly life; what he had left that is.

"You did some things in your last high school year that you aren't exceptionally proud of. I can see it through your body language. Hear it through the sound of your ragged, yet gentle tone of voice. And it's in your eyes." He sat down, and took two fingers, pointing them at his face.

Brutal slammed the clipboard against the cell with a large CLANG! The board snapped in two. He was surprised that Paul didn't come running out of the office. Brutal forcefully reached into the cell, and grabbed onto Freddie's collar, pulling him close. "What kind of game are you playing, huh?"

Freddie didn't move an inch, nor did he show any sign of weakness. "What are you going to do to me, beat me? Even though you are big in stature, you don't seem like the guy who would want to hurt people unless necessary; which gives me good reason that you were just a bystander in high school. Do you want to tell me why?"

Brutal delved deep into Freddie's eyes, and concentrated hard at his target. "What did you do to Dean? He's not himself anymore. And Winnie, you were a part of it. I think I have a good understanding of it now…" Brutal trailed off. He analyzed the man before him. "You play with the mind like it's a toy. That's how you were able to persuade all of those people you killed."

"It was their decision to die for what they believed in. I didn't kill them physically, I killed them mentally." Freddie sleekly grinned. Brutus knew that Freddie had something up his sleeve. "Brutus, you have to understand something. I may be little, but I can take anybody off the street, and convince them to do things that are unimaginable; for example, turning against their friends and family, murdering innocent lives; and in most cases, killing themselves." Brutal, clenched his fist that was holding onto Freddie's shirt, tighter and tighter by each passing moment. "I can take someone like you…and pick you apart bit by bit, until you can't handle the truth any longer. That's what I can do, and I can do it in prison. You saw the aftermath of Dean; that was my work. Harry will be going to the bank any time today in hopes to attempt to close his accounts, for the third time. I can't imagine, considering that the way the economy is he is already two hundred dollars in debt; forcing him to spend at least half of his retirement savings that he just took out of the bank. And considering that he'd shown up for work, and only stayed for half an hour of his shift concerns me. It tells me that something unsettling happened; spiking his anxiety even further. He will come back to me Brutus, and because he is so upset, not even you or Paul will be able to stop him." Suddenly Brutal's hand seemed to have loosened from the collar. Freddie touched the metal of the bars with such interest, and innocence. "In Winnie's case...I had nothing to do with it."

"Liar!" Brutal screamed.

Freddie raised his hands in surrender, "I've got Dean and Harry within my grasp. Not to mention the other inmate, in which I've been able to keep quiet. I've got him in my grasp as well; the poor bastard. Did you know that Alex committed several crimes involving shop lifting, rape and murder? He was only caught and charged for one. And did you also know that he was neglected as a child, and showed several signs of becoming a sociopath at the age of thirteen." Freddie took another breath. The tension rose in his voice when he continued to speak. "And once puberty hit, he was so ashamed of himself that he would masturbate dozens of times in the day just to please him; because he was too poor, dirty, and scared to be with any partner; man or woman. If I were him Brutus, I'd murder people too."

Brutal grabbed his handkerchief in the back of his pocket, and wiped his forehead; not losing eye contact with the inmate. "And soon, I will have Paul, and then I will have control of you. That's my plan before I die. That's if I don't kill you first."

"Is this a death threat, Freddie?" Brutal challenged.

Freddie smirked, "I'm going to be in here for a few weeks, and it is quite boring. I'm just trying to find something entertaining."

Brutus couldn't believe this man, it was sick. He would crack open someone's psychosis like it was a science project. He was intellectual in the mind, smart, handsome, clean and had all the features that did not match a killer's profile. The simple stereotype of a serial killer was long gone now. Brutus had to give word to Paul about this conversation with Freddie, so that everyone should know that talking with this man was very dangerous, and that if he started delving into personal material, that you would keep calm and walk away from the situation. This man was treacherous and ruthless towards the complex mind. Brutal was still curious though, as to know Freddie's past before he was caught for murder. Brutus knew that he should stay away from the man, but there was something about him that made Brutus wants to keep coming to him; coming to him with questions, and expecting answers. What was wrong with him!? Why did his interest just spark with curiosity, it wasn't right. If he was to probe into deep conversation with Freddie, he would have to do it cautiously, and quietly. He wouldn't tell Paul just yet.

Brutal took several deep breaths, and picked up the broken pieces of the clipboard. "Here's the thing Freddie. I hope we meet in conversation again, but for the love of god…stay away from the people you have already manipulated; or I will come inside and beat you to a pulp. I may be a gentle soul, but I can scare a prisoner when it is necessary. Do you understand?"

Brutus had a way with words; it caused Freddie to give a warm smile, and make a quick deal. "I understand Mr. Howell. I'll leave them alone if it is what pleases you."

And it did please Brutal, considerably.

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_Chapter eight is next..._

_Please review! I'll love you forever!_


	8. A Man and His Revolver

**AN: I don't own the Green Mile! Please R&amp;R!**

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The Man and his Revolver:

Brutus was working the night shift, and there were neither floaters nor other guards at the moment. They were short one guard, and the floaters were too lazy to get their asses over to E block. It was dangerous to be alone on the mile, accompanied with the prisoners; but Brutus was large enough to take down three convicts if such a situation occurred. Brutal walked along the mile, trying to pass the hours upon hours of doing absolutely nothing. He could only stare upon the prisoners with pity. Alex was weeping in a corner. He was to die in a couple of days, and the mile was going to receive a new convict only a few weeks later. Ever since the depression occurred, more and more people started committing crimes, just to get by in life. Brutus was fortunate enough to take the money and run with his accounts, but he felt for the many civilians who were struggling. Unfortunate events sent many to jail, maybe a couple onto Death Row. Brutal tapped on the cell bars with his baton, trying to get Alex's attention. He wanted to talk with the man, and see what the problem was at hand. Most of all, he wanted to know what the hell Freddie was saying to the lowly prisoner. He was probably badgering him, and toying with his mind. It looked like it; it looked like it was tearing him apart.

"Hey Alex," he greeted with a warm and compassionate smile. Brutus looked over his shoulder, and was relieved to see Freddie caught in a deep sleep. "Can I come in?"

Alex turned to face the guard and nodded. Brutal whipped the cell keys from the back of his pocket and twisted the key inside the keyhole. He opened the cell with a BANG, but it didn't seem to wake the other convict. Brutus quickly snatched a chair, and placed it inside the cell. He seated himself in front of the offender, leaning back and crossing his arms. "What do you want boss Howell?"

Brutal bore a soft expression upon his strong face. His voice soothed Alex considerably. "I need to talk to you about something important."

"Yes," Alex started. "It's about Freddie, isn't it?"

Brutus was predictable, and his curiosity had shown for the last day. "Yeah, what happened to Winnie?"

Alex ruffled his hair, "I cannot say."

"Why?" the guard questioned.

"Because," Alex started. "I'm not allowed to, or else Olson will come and kill me. Honestly, I want to die by the electric chair, not Olson."

Brutal was very confused at the situation. He squinted, "Who is Olson?"

Alex glanced to the side before looking back at Brutus. His sad expression grew to one of concern. "Boss Howell, are you okay?"

Brutal raised an eyebrow, "Of course, why?"

"You look dead. You should see your eyes. They weren't like that yesterday."

Brutal quickly rose from the chair. He closed the cell door, and locked it before running into the washroom; he bolted it tight. Shuffling into the small room, Brutus whipped his tall body towards the mirror; staring at it with pure concentration. As he gazed into the reflecting glass, he noticed that his appearance had changed considerably over the past few hours. His eyes were a bloodshot red, and the color from his face had completely drained. He suddenly felt weak; as if his bones were slowly turning into limp noodles. Brutus placed a hand onto his forehead, it was extremely warm. Then there was internal pain; his stomach was slightly churning, and his chest felt heavy. Every now and then a coughing fit would arise, but it would eventually go away. Last but not least, Brutal folded his pant leg up to his knee. He leaned downwards, gazing closely at the wound that he received weeks ago. The giant scab receded, but there was a considerably large amount of bruises surrounding the wound; they were a variety of colors and sizes. However, it still felt as if dozens of bees were injecting venom into his leg. Brutal touched the surface of the wound; there was a healthy amount of puss seeping from it. Apparently, he was doing a lousy job of keeping it clean. He washed it with creams every night, but it wasn't enough in this case. Brutus had no choice but to face the fact that he was getting sick. Was it flu season, or was the wound on his leg the catalyst for his ailment? Whatever the case, he hoped that he'd get better soon; but with one guard off for the week, and unable to attend the execution, he had no choice but to come into work, even if he was seriously ill.

* * *

The line was atrocious at the local bank. Again, it was long and Harry Terwilliger was stuck in the middle with nowhere to escape. He scanned the surrounding area. Again, strange men were loitering in the corners of the facility, and following whoever looked vulnerable. Harry grew concerned, and drew his attention forward. What was he doing at the bank? He should be at home, resting and spending quality time with his wife. But something strange was happening to Mr. Terwilliger; he seemed very distraught these last few days, after the unexpected death in the family. Harry was mad at the world and mad at himself for no apparent reason; and boy, was he ashamed of it. Earlier that morning, Harry gathered his bottled emotions into one and used all of the juice against his wife; scaring the shit out of her. He never treated his wife with disrespect, so why now? She was Cassandra's mother; and a mother losing her child can be just as painful, maybe even more.

This was Harry's fifth time visiting the bank, and they were starting to call him by name; it was rather scary. Because of these past occurring events, Harry's anxiety reached above its limit. He was angry, and desperately needing to close his accounts. The guard knew that he was in debt, but he prayed to the lord almighty that his hunch wasn't true. No matter what alternative Harry used, the bank knew how to suck him dry.

"Next!" A voice yelled. It was the teller he had met on his first meeting, and the fourth. She was friendly at first, but in the end, hopeless. Harry crawled to the teller, and looked up with fire in his eyes, he knew it; this was the day that things would change. That the accounts would close, and that he could start anew, start fresh. Then he could deal with other matters; such as his daughter's funeral. "How can I help you Mr. Terwilliger?"

"Oh, uh…" Harry started quietly. "I need to close my accounts. I need to do it now."

The teller scoffed, "Sir, I do not know how many times I need to tell you, no."

Harry slammed his hands against the table. "What if I give you money, huh? Will that satisfy you?"

The woman shook her head. "It is a hundred dollar closing fee."

Harry was aghast at the price range. "One hundred dollars…that half a year's paycheck and you expect me, to pay such a hefty price in order to close my accounts?"

The teller smiled; she should be ashamed. She was looking at a file in her hands. She glanced upwards, looking at Harry, quiet as a mouse. "Do you have any idea how much money you owe? Yes, Mr. Terwilliger, I know that you've been doing some home banking, but I assure you that it is a big mistake. The money is safe here."

Harry glanced downwards, and shook his head nonstop. "No, I don't know how much I owe, but let me tell you. I have bills to pay, and my salary keeps disappearing because I got to pay those bills and a grotesque fee, so that I can keep my money safe in this bank. Well, if it is safe here, then where is my money?" Harry was fed up, fed up with everything. He shot his head upwards, and locked his eyes with the teller. He bore a neutral expression, but he spoke with authority. "Now, I know you are going to say that everyone is going through the same thing, and that I should manage my money better. Yes, everybody is going through the same thing, that is true, but to tell me to manage my money when you guys keep draining it from my account. Two weeks ago, two hundred dollars from my retirement savings fund disappeared. And I know that I'm in the negatives, because I have no choice, but to keep borrowing!"

It's because of the crash," the woman attempted to speak, but Harry refused to let her open her mouth.

"Let me finish!" he whispered, "You listen to me ma'am. Close those accounts now…close them now, or I'll do something that I'll probably regret for the rest of my life."

The teller gasped. "And what may that be?"

There was a click. The teller closed her eyes for a quick moment before gazing them upon Harry's chest area. He was holding a revolver. She bore a look of quick surprise, and then fear. Harry nodded as he scanned the terrified look upon her face. "Now, close those accounts or I'll kill you. Do it quietly, and if you yell, scream, whisper, or tell anybody that I'm holding you at gunpoint, I'll kill you. And I'm not dumb, I'll know, got it?"

The teller bit her lip, and quivered. She looked as if she was on the verge of tears. "Tell me what you need?"

"First question, how much do I owe?" Harry started.

"You owe thirty four dollars, and fifty cents." The teller replied frantically.

Harry wrinkled his nose. "Here, I have thirty dollars." Harry placed a hand inside his pant pocket, and pulled out forty dollars of change. He placed the money on the table. "Alright, see this? Here's thirty dollars to get me out of debt, and here's ten dollars, to shut up. I don't want the police getting involved, because well, things could get a little complicated."

The woman didn't hesitate to take the ten dollars, and place it into the pocket of her shirt. She then counted the thirty dollars, and placed it to the side, "Anything else, Mr. Terwilliger?"

Harry nodded, "Yes, those accounts. I want them closed. Now, I'm a good man, so I'll pay for the closing fee. I'll pay five dollars."

The teller took a deep breath. She did as she was told, because she was a good girl. After closing the account, she took a stamp and placed it along his file. She quickly took out a drawer of currency, and counted it along the table. "Here's the rest of your retirement savings; two hundred dollars. The rest is at home I assume, and you had another savings account with another one hundred dollars, are we good?"

"You are a sweetheart, thanks." Harry placed the five dollars on the table in front of him, and traded it for the currency of his own. It was finished, the stress, and the accounts were finally closed. "And please, whatever you do Miss, I'm a father who has just lost his daughter, jail is the last thing my family needs." And Harry exited the bank, through the side door, hoping to avoid the creeps loitering in the corners. Harry speed walked to his car, which was conveniently hiding in the shadows of the alley way. Harry sat inside the car, and placed his keys into the ignition. Afterwards, he sat for a moment, thinking about his actions. Would he have shot the girl if she refused to acknowledge his requests? What has become of him? Harry looked down at the money strangled within his hands. Money wouldn't solve anything. Money couldn't take back the fear he forced into someone, couldn't bring back his daughter, and it wouldn't take back the disgusting hand that he placed on his wife's cheek. Harry looked through the window, and sighed. Harry blinked, a lone tear strolling down his cheek.

Harry crept through the alley, and merged in with the traffic. It was pouring in the city, and most likely on the farm; what a mess the rain would make.

* * *

Harry sat upon the couch in his living room. His wife was sitting on the porch, listening to the thunderstorm. Harry stared at pictures of his children, of his family. It was amazing how the death of a loved one could make your whole world turn in a different direction. He looked at the opened door, staring at his wife in the rocking chair. She was so calm and collective, whereas Harry was sensitive at times; he was truly jealous. He rose to his feet, and casually walked into the porch. He stopped beside his wife, and kneeled to her level. He grasped her hands. As he looked upon her face, he could see the pain that she was enduring.

"Mary," Harry was lost for words.

"Yes, Harry," Mary urged her husband to continue.

"I, I don't deserve you. And I never have." Harry stopped, and bit his lip, but he continued. "I want to say that I am truly sorry for what I did to you the other day. I've been married for over twenty five years, maybe thirty; and I've never laid a hand on you. So why now?" Harry placed a hand on her cheek, and placed a kiss upon her moist lips. She kissed him back, accepting his apology.

Mary smiled. "I forgive you, Harry. And you do deserve me. If you truly didn't then I wouldn't have married the shy, quiet, humorous and honest man that I married long ago."

"Mary, I also must leave you for now. I have to go to the mile for a minute, and talk to Paul."

Mary understood, "What time will you be back?"

"I'm not sure." Harry responded. And with that, he placed another kiss upon his wife's lips, and left the porch. As he made his way past the kitchen, he grasped his coat hanging from his chair; in which the gun was still tucked inside. He whispered, "I'm sorry Mary, but I may never come home."

* * *

Chapter nine is next...


	9. Harry vs Freddie

**AN: This is a Very short chapter, I promise a longer one, and an execution; but most of all, please enjoy! Percy will appear in later chapters when we get closer to the 1932 timeline. We are still in the late 1930's; so hold tight.**

* * *

Harry vs. Freddie:

Harry entered the Green Mile. He tiptoed inside, careful not to make a sudden noise. He scanned the area, making sure that no one was around. He knew that Brutus' shift was almost at an end, and Paul's car was in its lot. The two were nowhere to be seen. He peered through the blinds inside the office, and noticed that neither Brutus nor Paul were there. He guessed that they were shining up Ol' Sparky, or dealing with other matters in another room. Harry slowly crept down the mile, looking into the empty cells as he passed. Nearing the end, he passed Alex's cell; he was tucked into the corner of his bed, his back turned towards the bars. Alex didn't seem to notice.

"You aren't in uniform," A strange, yet familiar voice called. Harry turned to see Freddie, inches from the bars. Harry stopped in front of Freddie's cell. "No guard comes here without his uniform. You aren't supposed to be here are you?"

"I've come to ask a few questions." Harry responded.

"Oh," Freddie said in surprise. "And what are these questions that I must answer?"

Harry licked his lips. "How did you know my daughter was going to die?"

Freddie raised an eyebrow. "I never stated that fact. My sincere apologies by the way; no wonder I hadn't seen you around the past few days."

"You said that there was a strange aura in the air," Harry pointed a finger. "And conveniently, a loved one died that morning. Are you some supernatural being?"

Freddie scoffed, "No, but I've been gifted. My senses are different than regular human beings. They are out of whack. So I guess I learned something new today. I can predict the future," Freddie said sarcastically, as he spread his palms in the air.

Harry huffed, "That's not funny."

"No, you want to know my art, my true talent?"

Harry grew extremely curious. He noticed Freddie's eyes glaring at the object inside his coat pocket. "My art is manipulation. I use it when I get bored. By the way, why is there a gun in your pocket? You haven't come all this way to kill me, have you?"

In a flash, Harry quickly drew the revolver from his coat pocket, and raised it in the air. Harry fired the gun at the light above, as a warning shot; showing the prisoner that the gun was loaded. He screamed at Freddie, "Of course I have, and for good reason too!"

Suddenly, the office door swung open, and Paul and Brutus burst from the room fast like a bullet. Their guns at the level of their eyes, ready to fire at their target. Paul gazed upon the confrontation, and saw a familiar face pointing a revolver at the convict. "Harry," Paul whispered at first, but then elevated his voice; the gun steady in his hand. "Jesus Christ Harry, what are you doing?"

Harry's pistol locked onto Freddie. "You killed sixty people."

Freddie latched onto the cell bars. "Yeah, and what are you going to do about it? Shooting me won't bring those people back!"

Paul's voice continued to carry; he inched closer to the deadly situation. "Jesus Harry, put the gun down!"

Harry's hand started to shake. He was afraid, truly afraid. "I know that," Tears started to well up in his eyes.

Brutus attempted to ease the situation, "Harry, you are a good man! You would do jail time if you pull that trigger!"

Harry ignored Brutus, and continued to focus on Freddie. Freddie leaned forward, "I know why," he murmured. "You didn't come here to kill me."

Harry started to lower his gun.

Freddie continued, "I know the reason," Freddie took a quick breath, "You worthless piece of shit. I mean, why are you standing there holding your gun? Why don't you just shoot?"

The words cut into Harry like daggers.

"I guess you aren't man enough to do so. You aren't the animalistic type. No, you are the cowardly. I mean, if you are going to shoot…do it right now." Freddie showed sympathy in his glowing eyes. "Or are you doing this because you are afraid to, and that you are just hoping, that little sliver of hope, that your friends will do the dirty work for you? Now, isn't that cowardly? How tall are you?"

"5"11," Harry responded.

Paul exclaimed, "For the love of god Harry just put the gun down, or we will have no choice, but to shoot you!"

Freddie smirked, "I've never seen shit that high."

The tears rolled down Harry's cheeks. One by one, droplets of water hit the ground. At first, Harry couldn't hear anything, nothing. "Tell me Harry, am I right?"

"Huh?" Harry snapped back into reality.

Freddie cocked his head to the side. "I said, am I right?"

Harry nodded hesitantly.

The prisoner smiled gleefully, "Don't be so quick to answer. Just prove to me that you are not a coward. Prove it to me."

Paul drew closer, but Brutus was quick to pull him back, "Christ Brutal, for god sakes, Freddie is doing something to Harry, and I need to stop it!"

"I know," Brutus said. "But we don't know what he's going to do. He might shoot us if we get too close. Let's just talk him out of it, and then take the gun."

Paul waved Brutus' arm away, "Fuck that."

Paul was only inches away from Harry, before a twist of events occurred. Harry quickly took the gun, and pointed the head of the pistol inside his mouth. He wailed as he did so. Paul stopped in his tracks. He watched as Harry placed the gun inside his mouth; he could finally hear the commotion, the pain. Paul looked upon Freddie who was making noise against the steel bars.

"Son of a bitch!" Freddie shouted numerous times, "Son of a bitch, do it, do it, do it, do it!"

Paul lashed back, "Shut the Fuck up or you'll be going into the restraint room!" he grabbed a hold onto Harry wrist, and wriggled it. "Harry, you pull that trigger, you aren't coming back."

Harry cried. He hiccuped a few times before speaking. "I…I…I'm worth more dead than alive."

"No, no," Paul started, still firm on Harry's wrist. "You are worth more alive than dead. Please, just lower the gun and we can talk about it like men."

Harry shook his head as he continued to weep, "Why Paul, why her? Why did my little girl have to die? Please Paul, tell me why?"

Paul shook his head. "Harry, I don't know; but believe me, if you pull that trigger, you aren't going to solve the problem, you are only going to create more pain. Not just for your family, but for us. Christ, the last thing we need is another funeral; so please, just lower the gun. Harry, we can get through this together. Believe me when I say so."

Harry paused, the gun still pointed inside his mouth. Just then, Paul could feel Harry's hand go limp. Paul took the opportunity to take the gun. He tossed it aside, the weapon landing in Brutus' arms. Brutal placed the gun behind his belt. Paul supported Harry as the two strolled along the Green Mile, still latching on to Harry's wrist. Brutus followed. "Brutal, stay here on the mile, I'm going to take Harry home. Don't say a word about this to anyone, you understand?"

"Yes, sir," he acknowledged, opening the entrance to E block.

As Harry and Paul left E block, Harry piped up. It was pouring. "Paul."

"Yes, Harry," Paul responded.

"You're a good man."

Paul didn't know how to respond to such a comment; especially coming from a close friend. "We are all relieved that you are okay."

"Are you going to tell Mary?"

Paul didn't hesitate to answer his question. "What happens on the mile, stays on the mile…always has."

* * *

_Chapter 10 is next..._


	10. Discipline

Green mile 10: Discipline

The next morning, Paul was at the front desk near the entrance of the mile, filing some important paperwork regarding his fellow workers, and inmates. He was relieved. It had been a couple of weeks since the questionnaire, but nothing out of the ordinary was occurring; at least not at E block. But it wasn't his concern; his main concern was E block, and making sure that he was keeping the peace every single day. Paul searched through the many papers on the desk, and came to Alex's profile. He flipped through the booklet in his hands. Tonight was the night. Alex was to die at eleven P.M. The paperwork wasn't the hardest part of the job, it was mainly saying goodbye. What people in society didn't know was the humane side of the monsters. They did wrong in their lives, and they were paying for the crimes they committed, but they were still human, and they still bore feelings. It was hard, and nobody but the guards on E block understood. Paul leaned back in the chair and sighed. They were short one guard and the floaters didn't know how to run a perfect execution; well, not under Paul's expectations. They needed more guards on E block, if such an event would occur again. He would let Hal know.

But in the meantime, Paul would have to get the boys to rehearse Alex's execution. Maybe two or three times at most. Paul claimed the head of the execution this time around; Brutal was instructed to take the lead of Freddie's execution. Paul didn't know what to do with Alex during rehearsal. He had no immediate family, and he took part in little to no leisure activity to keep him entertained. I'm sure he would think of something.

Then there were last rights. The majority of convicts stated that they wanted a hearty meal in which they couldn't give. It would be interesting to hear Freddie's requests. It was probably for all of the guards to go die in a hole. It's unpleasant, but it's nothing that Paul's never heard before. Paul listened to the quiet morning in the mile. Dean and Jack Van Hay were enjoying a quick cup of coffee in the office. The prisoners, Freddie was sound asleep. According to Brutal, who had taken Paul's night shift, Freddie was obnoxious and constantly badgering his poor neighbor, whose mind was no match for Freddie's. Brutal threatened to teach Freddie a lesson or two, which in turn, didn't always work. They had to do something about that prisoner. After last night, it was obvious that Freddie was shredding anybody who stepped into his path. The strange convict needed serious discipline; Paul was going to make sure of it.

"Psst," a quiet voice hissed.

Paul's ears perked, he lifted his head from the paper, and gazed down the mile, seeing a hand reaching from the cell bars. It was Alex. "Boss, I need to tell you something."

Paul glanced from side to side before rising to his feet. He took his time following the green linoleum. "Yes Alex, what would you like?"

"I need to talk," Alex was lying on the ground, staring at Paul's feet. "There's someone trying to kill me."

Paul shook his head. "Oh come on dumb boy, no one is trying to kill you. Well, aside from tonight."

"Olson," Alex whispered, catching Paul's attention.

"Olson?"

"That's his name," Alex stared at his own feet which were like jelly. "He's an interesting man. I saw him when you and Mr. Terwilliger left."

Paul raised both of his eyebrows, "Alex, who's Olson?"

Alex gazed upon Paul, his eyes dull like an old penny. "I told you, he's the man trying to kill me."

Paul sighed, "Alex, stop playing games."

Alex couldn't believe his ears. "What, you don't believe me? He, he, he came into my cell last night. He threatened me."

Paul found himself in an awkward position. He turned towards Freddie's cell. Freddie was now wide awake, leaning against the prison bars; his arms crossed.

"What did you do to him?" Paul questioned with authority.

Freddie shrugged, "I gave him a simple idea and he took that idea to heart."

"How long has he been like this?"

Freddie raised an eyebrow, "A little too long. I didn't mean for it to happen. All I said to him was to keep quiet, or my old buddy Olson would drop by and kill him. He's a dumb shit, he believed me. I didn't remind him much, maybe once or twice. But he truly is afraid of Olson."

"What's the backstory," Paul said, intrigued.

Freddie smacked his lips. "Olson was my partner in crime. He was a hit man, a gambler, a drug lord. He's the guy who entertained me every day of my life. But, eventually the juice ran out, and I had no choice but to do it, I was bored. So I shot him with a rifle, a big one too. I'm surprised I was able to bail the city without getting caught by the authorities, but little old Alex doesn't believe that the poor man is dead. He's convinced himself that this man was going to kill him if he uttered a single word to any of you guards, he still is. It was a little joke! I didn't think he'd take it seriously."

Paul stomped his foot against the ground, "Shut up Freddie! You've hurt enough people already. I want you to stay quiet for the rest of the night until the execution is carried out. Your little game could hurt Alex; and we need him alive for tonight, unlike Winnie."

"You –"

Paul smirked, "Oh yes, I know you handed Winnie the key. I'm not dumb. And I'm the boss here. You need a little discipline, and I assure you that we need to find you some better entertainment. Tell me, are you fond of art?"

"Art in what form?" asked Freddie.

Paul smirked. He wandered over to the radio by the desk, and tuned into a station. The radio was new, and they only acquired one channel. It played country music and soap operas; but mainly soap operas. "It's art at its finest."

* * *

"Well Jack, thanks for lending some charcoal and paper for our young lad. I'm sure he will keep busy for the rest of the night, isn't that right Freddie?" Freddie gawked at the three guards loitering around his cell. Jack, Dean and Paul all held mugs of coffee in their hands, taunting the prisoner.

Dean spoke, "He's very quiet. How did you get him to shut up?"

Paul started, "Well, this man needs a little discipline. As you all know he's a brilliant mind."

Jack Van Hay nodded, "Strapped him down?"

Paul chuckled, "Nothing like strapping him down and listening to a little soap opera on our radio." The three guards laughed together.

Freddie was drawing at a small desk inside his cell. He hated art, any art, but he had no choice. He was handcuffed to the table, and if he participated in the activities that he was instructed, food and a hot bath would come his way. His first punishment for toying with Dean, Harry's and Winnie's minds was tying him to a chair, and playing soap operas on the radio. When enough was endured, Paul gave him a new form of entertainment, drawing. Paul continued, "And Freddie is going to keep quiet for the rest of the night, right Freddie, or we are going to have to endure more soap operas. And we all know how much you love them."

Freddie scowled as he continued to entertain himself, "Whatever."

Paul cocked his head to the side, "Whatever what?"

"Sir," Freddie answered. "This is humiliating, sir."

The guards were pleased. Dean entered the conversation, "Freddie, you can also play cards with us anytime you like. Just let us know."

"Freddie you have to understand that your mind is like a car; it keeps running. In order to keep it idle we need to calm it. Now, this is my last warning. You can talk to us, but if there is any indication that you are becoming a hazard to my block, serious measures will occur. I need the prisoners calm here along with my staff. I can't have an episode like last night happening again. It would be an awful mess to clean up; and this time I would make sure you'd do it, understood?"

Freddie took a deep breath, "Yes sir."

"Continue," Paul concluded. After his last statement, Paul led Dean and Jack to the desk. "When Brutal arrives, Dean, let him know what's going on. Also, you are on watch for now. I need Alex calm; I can't have anyone hurting themselves. Oh, and Dean, if he's not behaving, don't hesitate to strap him. Record his behaviour as well. Our radio is quite new, and needs a little tuning."

Dean crossed his arms and smiled, "My pleasure."

"Jack and I will be in the execution room," Paul stated before leaving the mile; Jack Van Hay followed. Paul started, "Jack, do you think you'll be able to help us strap Alex tonight? Since Harry won't be with us, I've got to switch everyone around."

Jack nodded, "Sure Paul, whatever you need me to do." He took a sip of his coffee. "What're you thinking?"

Paul sighed, "I'll get Dean to do Harry's job; you will take Dean's place, and then once he's strapped tight, go to the switch room."

"Yes, sir," he concluded.

When Brutal arrived at the mile, it was somewhat chaotic. Paul and Dean were practically sitting on the convict, Freddie, who laid face first into the floor. They were tying the straight jacket around Freddie, and Brutal could only wonder what on earth took place on the Green Mile. Anything could happen there. As Brutus continued down the mile, Paul looked up and smiled. Afterwards, Paul buckled the straps as Freddie struggled.

"Settle down Freddie," he started. "You were being uncourteous and foul mouthed on my block. Best we bring some discipline."

"Is that what happened?" Brutal chuckled.

Freddie continued to struggle, but Dean was quick to restrain him. "Not at first, you see we have this plan…Paul?"

"Brutal, listen well. The same goes for you Freddie!"

"What have I ever done to you?!" Freddie exclaimed.

"Like I said before and I don't know if you were listening, but we've got to keep you quiet and occupied. If we suspect any suspicious behaviour, see you do wrong, being foul mouthed, or throwing a temper tantrum because things aren't going your way, then desperate times will call for desperate measures. And because of your cursing and sudden violent outburst, we are restraining you. I'm not tolerating bad behaviour like yours."

Brutus glanced at his toes, laughing nervously.

Paul became confused, "What's that look for?"

Paul and Dean lifted the prisoner from the floor, and led him to the restraint room. Much to their surprise, once Paul opened the door, several chairs and empty desks greeted them. Freddie laughed, "Ha, you can't put me in there now, huh?"

Dean shoved the convict forward. "Shut up, or best we put you in there with the rest of the company."

Paul turned to Brutal, "So that's where all our stuff went?"

Brutal shrugged his shoulders, "It was quiet round the mile! I didn't think we were needing it."

Freddie struggled, but Paul and Dean had a firm grip. "Well, you still aren't getting off the hook. Now, decide, what would you rather do? Strap and listen to the radio, or a little game of torture from Brutal here?"

Brutal thought to himself: _Since when did this involve me?_

Freddie was small in physique and knew that he was signing his own death warrant if he picked the latter. "The radio," Freddie answered.

Paul stretched out an arm, "Brutal, tape."

And so they taped his mouth shut; he was unable to scream, no longer able to talk. Poor Freddie was in a strait jacket, tied to his chair, unable to move, with nothing but the radio in front of his cell. It was enormous, and on a cart. There was only one channel at the time, and all there was, was the good ol' country music and soap operas. It was a new form of entertainment, but not Freddie's kind of entertainment. He hated distractions; he enjoyed the peace and quiet. All three guards stood in the front of Freddie's cell glowering down upon him. Paul said:

"Oh, this is for the company."

Brutal added his two cents, "And this should keep you quiet for the rest of the night."

Freddie struggled once again, attempting to escape, but it was no use. He cursed below the tape. Paul shook his head and turned his back along with Brutus. Brutal whispered into his ear:

"Paul," he started. "Strapping him down won't be enough, you know that. This is not punishment exactly."

"No," Paul agreed. "It's not. We could beat him to a pulp, but…he is weak physically. In my beliefs, I would rather fight a man who has the same physicality as me. He's strong in the mind though, and so am I. I'd rather fight that way."

Brutal couldn't help, but nod his head in agreement. Paul was right, and full of wisdom. What would the world be without him? "What if it gets worse? He can drive an innocent man to his death. If you are going to fight him mentally you've got to get into his mind. You've got to drive him mad; it's the only way. Occupying him won't be enough, and soon, he will be restless until one of us finally pulls the trigger. It was too close of a call last night, and I wouldn't know what to do if such a thing happened to you. Eventually, he'll have to learn the hard way; show him in that certain situations, brawn can win the battle. It's like war almost."

"Brutal, I admire your opinions and I take them into consideration, but if he doesn't struggle, there is no need to continue our little game of torture. My decision stands, and we keep him occupied until further notice. But right now, we just need to focus on Alex."

* * *

_Chapter eleven is next..._


	11. Alex's End

**Sorry, that it has been so long. I had graphic design stuff to do, but I'm back and hope that I can update soon. Please R and R.**

* * *

Alex's End:

"Alex," Paul started. "What will it be then?"

Alex was slouched over, sitting in a chair, both hands placed under his chin. He stared upon Paul's chest in front of him; Paul, sitting in another chair with patience. They were making little to no conversation at first, and Brutal wondered whether or not they should bother with Alex's last rights. Brutus pulled out his pocket watch and let Paul gaze upon the ticking object. Paul nodded.

"Ahem!"

Alex blinked once or twice. He lifted his chin, and bellowed, "What?"

"What will it be then?" Paul questioned once again.

Alex started, "I'm sorry boss. There's a lot going through my mind right now."

Paul nodded, "Of course there is. I don't blame you."

Alex took a deep breath. "I don't want to go, but I have to repent for the sins I have committed. I've been praying a lot lately…but…but…" he trailed off, his eyes shifting away from the guards. "To tell you the truth, I am beyond scared."

Paul tilted his head to the side, "About dying?"

Alex nodded in return.

Brutus entered the conversation, hoping to break the silence that was created. "These are your last rights, is there anything you want to say? Is there anything you want?"

"Like a preacher," Paul added.

Alex shook his head, "I've been praying, and praying; but to someone that I'm not sure really exists. If there was a God, those innocent people wouldn't have died by my hand." Alex placed a hand under his cheek. A lone tear escaped his eyes. "Olson?"

Paul stared at Alex with wide eyes, "He's not out to kill you, Alex."

Alex answered Paul, "No, you're right, he's not. Instead, we are wonderful friends. He tells me things."

"Things," Paul snorted, "Like what?"

Alex did not answer. He had now lost touch with reality, and the two guards had to accept that truth. There's nothing that they can change. Brutal glanced at his pocket watch one last time before speaking, "Is there anything you want, Alex?"

Alex shook his head. Then a new personality came into play, making both Paul and Brutal jump. "Get out! I don't want to see you two!"

Paul bit his lower lip, "Fine." The guard stood onto his feet, and exited the cell, with the chair in hand. After Brutal locked the cage, he turned to face Paul. "What do you think?" Paul questioned to Brutus.

Brutus took a deep breath, and crossed his arms. "The Alex we knew is now gone. His mental state is…well…dangerous. But there's nothing we can do at this point. He's under Ol' Sparky's control now. When the clock hits midnight –

"Yes! Yes, I know." Paul interrupted. "I just want to do my job."

"Me too," Brutus concluded.

* * *

It was eleven thirty that gloomy evening; and the guards were gathered around the desk in the Green Mile. There was Paul, the lead for the night; Brutus, and Jack Van Hay, the guards to strap the poor convict to Ol' Sparky; and Dean, covering Harry's job, placing the headpiece onto Alex's head. After they were in each other's company, Paul gave the signal that it was finally time for Alex's demise.

All four guards slowly made their way to Alex's cell. Brutus opened the cell. He went inside and pulled a frightened Alex from the cold, dark cage. Alex did not try to break free from Brutal's grasp; he knew it was time to die, and so he accepted his fate. Once the cell was closed shut, and locked, the four guards gathered around Alex, and slowly marched him down the Green Mile. Near reaching the end, they took a sharp turn, passing the office. They stopped momentarily, with Paul gazing eyes upon the criminal. The man returned his gaze, and shook his head. Of course, a man who didn't believe in a higher being wouldn't dare repent for the sins of the past. It's what he thought, and praying alone, when he was terrified of the events ahead of him, wasn't always enough.

Paul acknowledged Alex's wishes, and the guards continued to walk him through the hallway. They came across a room though, a special room with an opened door. Alex peered around the corner, and could see dozens upon dozens of angry people sitting in chairs; just waiting for him to die. Alex felt as if a thousand knives were piercing through his body. But he had no choice but to endure this new pain.

They entered the room, and led Alex to the electric chair. The many people inside the room were as quiet as a mouse, and there was revenge and anger smothered along their faces. Hal was in the corner, near the switch room. Jack and Brutus strapped down Alex's arms, legs, and body into the chair, making sure that the convict couldn't move no matter what the circumstances. In the meanwhile, Paul took a sponge from the side, and quickly soaked it into a bucket of water. As he carefully placed the sponge atop of Alex's head, many drips of water drizzled down the offender's face and clothing. Once the sponge was placed, and the head piece was fastened tightly, each guard stood by, except Paul. Paul stood in front of the convict, whose eyes were filled with complete fear instead of true acceptance into death.

"Roll on one," Paul started.

Jack Van Hay drew the first switch, and the many lights in the room became brighter than half of the lights in the prison.

Paul continued his speech, "Alexander Smith, you have been condemned to die by a jury of your peers, sentence imposed by a judge in good standing in this state. Do you have anything to say before the sentence is carried out?"

"I'm sorry," Alex whispered. At that time, tears were strolling down his cheeks, and falling to his lap. Paul couldn't handle the pain from the prisoner. It was hard to say goodbye after so many weeks. "That's all."

Paul nodded, and then continued. "Alexander Smith, electricity shall now be passed through your body until you are dead in accordance with the state law. God have mercy on your soul." The last sentence was spoken in an unnatural tone that was aggressive and full of resentment. Funny that Paul did not regret it what-so-ever. Paul escaped beside Dean, and cleared his throat. There was a long pause before Paul's next command.

"Roll on two!"

And at that moment, electricity soared through Alex's body, killing him in less than a minute. By a quarter past midnight, Alexander Smith was no longer on this Earth. Only God can decide Alex's lonely soul's fate now.

* * *

_Chapter twelve is next..._


	12. Brutal vs Freddie Part 2:

**I don't own the Green Mile**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Brutus vs Freddie Part 2:

The next day was beyond bearable. It was eerie and strange not to have Alex crawling between the bars. It felt vague and empty. Even the weather was gloomy; there was nothing, but clouds covering the sky. Brutal wouldn't be surprised if it rained that evening.

Leaning against what was Alex's cell, Brutus lit a cigarette. He never smoked, until today. You could say he was a recreational smoker, usually on days of pure celebration; though today was nowhere close to the word "celebration" and its meaning. He was just smoking to calm his body and mind. He felt empty inside, just like Alex's cell. After putting the body away, it was hard to say goodbye; or even believe that they are actually dead. You feel as if you have to convince yourself that the dead will stay dead, and will not journey home back into your care.

In the mile, Dean sat at the desk, filing some quick paperwork. Brutus slightly smiled, as he watched his friend work quickly. Dean rolled his eyes upward, meeting Brutal's smirk. Dean scoffed, "Aren't you going to do something?"

Brutus shook his head. "Not today. Actually, I'm going to watch my good friend, Freddie over here."

"Oh, I see," Dean stated sarcastically. "And what are you doing? You don't smoke! I've never seen you with a lighter and cigar in hand."

Brutus ignored Dean's last statement, and glanced at Freddie's cell. Freddie's ankles were chained to the bars of the cell. He was in a sitting position with a paper and what looked like charcoal in hand. Freddie didn't like or appreciate art, but he didn't mind creating some of his own. And from what Brutus could see, he wasn't that bad of an artist. Unfortunately, most of his pieces were dark, and gloom. Brutus drew another puff of smoke.

Freddie felt as if eyes were on him; and they were. He glanced up towards Brutus and smiled. "Good morning. Do you want to talk?"

Brutus smirked, "Why would you think that?"

The convict shrugged his shoulders. "Because," he briefly paused, "You look as if you have something to say to me, but are too scared. What are you afraid of; that I might taint your pure soul with my utter genius?"

"No," Brutus quickly replied. "Well, yes, actually. I was just curious…" Brutus trailed off, but Freddie gestured for him to continue. "I've read your profile several times, and I just want to know your story. You are a genius with the mind. How on Earth did you not use your gift for good use?"

Freddie chuckled slightly, "I did put it to good use. I killed at least 60 people."

"How on Earth" –

Freddie shoved the charcoal and paper aside, "Would you care to listen to a wonderful story; my story?"

Brutus nodded with hesitation.

"Okay," Freddie nodded in return.

* * *

They fell simultaneously against the cold, hard ground. It was spring time. The grass was a rich and vivid green, and there was dampness in the air. It was a spring afternoon full of blood and silent terror. The many bodies shook upon the ground, until they moved no more; their life sucked dry. But they weren't ordinary fellow; they were strange, strange people. The towns' folk described them as activists, fighting for what they believed in; whether it would be animal cruelty, women's rights, or environmental issues. It was the ladder, except the group's views were controversial. Their sights wouldn't benefit towards modern society. For example, the protesters wouldn't defend the forest; instead, they would attempt to become the forest spiritually. Along their many endeavors, they were trying to recruit others into the cult. I don't pray, so I wouldn't understand in the slightest, but common sense would state that their campaign was utterly useless and wasn't valuable towards current civilization. Stating that fact, common sense was hard to find nowadays.

I stood on an apple carton under a small tent. Everyone else was in the sunlight, lying motionless upon the ground. I scanned each body from where I stood, pondering to myself. There were at least seventy activists in the area, all of which fought for their beliefs. It was hard to comprehend for my taste. Approximately half an hour earlier, there was a rally; and once upon a time, there was a meeting. It was a gathering that I accidentally came across in my travels. As I attended, I noticed that they were a little unorganized and that they didn't have a leader. They were just a large group of civilians with a mere idea.

That was when I took one step forward. I attended the meeting, listening to every worthless piece of crap that escaped their lips, but I didn't argue. I placed my name in the hat, and before dawn I was elected leader. The public loved me.

I'm a small guy. I'm short, slim, and have little to no muscle, let alone bone. I'm challenged physically, but strong mentally. I possessed a great mind, but people eventually grew distant towards me. One spat, saying that I had a prodigious mind, yet a dangerous one; I was too young and naïve to understand what he meant. As weeks went by, I led these poor men and women down the road to success, to happiness and to freedom of will. They all put their trust in me without a second thought, believing that the world would change in their favour. The innocence, thoughts, and ideas, became my property.

But today was the finale, the final idea that was to be put into action. There was no preparation on their part, only mine. I didn't want to get the government involved; I could care less. Yes, I could care less about their ideals. I grew extremely tired over the past few days, and needed to rid these people from my backs. You see, I knew this chemist. Conveniently, he lived in the very city I resided in. I wanted the result to be clean and an act of free will. The chemist gave me botulinum; the deadliest poison known to man. It is said that one gram could kill 80,000 people. It was tasteless, odorless, and anyone could prepare it. However, it was useless around oxygen, so major preparations were in order.

After a long speech about the protestors' vague thoughts about freedom and versatility towards their petty environment, I somehow managed to convince them that one's life was a powerful and destructive weapon of manipulation; and that their lives were a major part in this campaign. They, along with me, would infect us with poison; in high hopes that the government and authorities would finally listen to our messages and put them into action. Well, I didn't say "hope". If the many people were truly committed to their "strong" opinions, they would commit the act, not just for themselves, but for society.

We chanted obnoxiously. Once finished our barbarian hymn, we all drank the poison as one, except me. I simply tilted back and threw the botulinum over my shoulder. It took no more than ten seconds before every individual started feeling the effects. Some passed out seconds after they swallowed. Others choked on their own vomit. The protesters were suffering, and their suffering didn't affect me in the slightest. It was interesting how their misery was my source of entertainment; call me a sick mind. The bodies lay side by side, one on top of the other; it was finished. The only survivor, me, was bored again.

A quick question entered my mind, _"Should I stay here, or go? And if I leave, where will I go?"_ I stood erect on that apple carton longer than usual. A couple of farmers arrived with their pitchforks and rifles.

"What's going on?" One farmer started, staring upon the multiple bodies. "What the hell happened?"

I thought for a moment before speaking, "These poor people. They were environmental protestors. They talked nonsense. Believe me, I'm just an innocent bystander."

"You didn't answer his question," the other farmer interrupted my speech, "he asked you what happened, not their life stories."

I raised my hands in surrender. "They committed suicide. They poisoned themselves with botulinum."

"Are you with them?"

"Yes," I answered in a haze.

"Then why aren't you dead too?" There was a slight pause, "They all killed themselves for a reason, so why aren't you dead too?"

Suspicions rose, and I soon found myself pinned against a tree by two big officers. They shackled my wrists and took me away, convicting me of murder.

It was an unfortunate event, really. My brilliant mind did not convince the judge and the jury of my innocence. It was obvious that my lawyer was against me. I was a disgusting man in their eyes, but how could I be guilty of murder? I didn't touch those people; they died by their own hand, their own free will. Each one drank their vial without hesitation.

When the last minute of court was in session, the ruthless judge slammed in mallet in conclusion, sentencing me to death by the electric chair. So I sat in my cell one grim Tuesday afternoon; a plate of food was beside by bed. I tapped my fingers against the wall, thinking about the provocative situation. The only bonus from the brutal crime was the adrenaline rush; the sensation was uplifting. I wasn't sorry for that, I wasn't sorry at all. The death of each individual activist was enriching…what an oxymoron.

I needed something to do, some sort of entertainment to keep my mind occupied. Reaching into my pocket, I grabbed a small vial I liked to call death, but technically speaking, was known as botulinum. Security at the prison was too ignorant to even bother searching my clothes; lucky me, it was sarcasm at its finest. I shook the vial back and forth, contemplating several times, but eventually making a final verdict.

"I'm curious."

* * *

"I guess this is what happens when you play with a dangerous mind," Freddie concluded, with the vial of poison in his hand. Brutus couldn't believe his eyes. How did that small vial get past the guards? They searched his body several times, only to come up empty. "Would you like some?"

Brutus shook his head, "No, but give it to me."

Reluctantly, Freddie handed Brutus the vial of poison into the guard's empty hand.

"Were you going to use this against me?"

"No, no," lied Freddie. "I have a question of my own," Freddie continued the conversation.

Brutal was all ears.

"Can we continue our old conversation…from the other day?"

"Our conversation," Brutus stated in confusion. He shifted his eyes from side to side.

"Something tells me that you were a bully back in High School."

Brutus took a deep breath, and conflicted with himself. Was he to answer this question? If he did, would he be able to recover from Freddie's schemes. There was only on way to find out.

"I was," Brutal answered, "Among many in my High School."

"Why?" Freddie questioned once again.

"Peer pressure," was his reply.

"Because you were from the football team; you were popular?" added Freddie.

Brutal stared at the ground momentarily and took in another puff of smoke. "You could say that. I was friends with many on the football team. But one in particular did not please us."

"Oh?" Freddie's ears perked. "Was he small?"

"Yeah," Brutal's spoke in a quiet tone. "Yes he was. Weak, and he did not deserve to be on the football team."

A sleek smile bore across Freddie's face. "Something terrible happened, didn't it?"

Brutal tapped the end of his cigarette. "Yeah, something happened. My friends and I beat the shit out of him, every single day. Some of the boys spread rumours, others embarrassed the poor lad. I was a bystander some days, but that doesn't excuse me from my own crimes that I committed." Brutal took a deep breath, and thought to himself.

Freddie continued the conversation, "Then one day, it stopped. What happened to the poor boy?"

Brutal choked. "He couldn't take the abuse any longer. He convinced himself that he was to blame for our actions against him."

Freddie's curiosity got the best of him, "How did he do it?"

Brutal was disgusted, "He blew his brains out."

Freddie mocked Brutal's pained expression, "How could you do such a thing?"

Brutus tossed the end of the cigarette onto the ground; his mighty boot crashed down on the piece of rolled paper, "That's why I deemed to never use my strength against someone, unless completely necessary. To answer your previous question, I didn't join the mile because I needed a job, I signed up for this job, because I didn't want to judge; I didn't want to hurt. I believe now that everybody deserves a second chance; and mine was the mile. I'm truly blest." Brutal coughed before concluding, "Are you happy now?"

Brutus left the scene. He'd left valuable information into the hands of a monster. He wasn't sure what Freddie would do with that information, but the future was no longer Brutal's concern.

And Freddie was satisfied.

* * *

_Chapter 13 is next..._


	13. New Directions

Chapter 13: New Directions

Approximately a week and a half had passed since Alex's execution, and every guard on E block seemed to have brushed the incident off of their shoulders. They focused on other things now; such as family, friends, other prisoners and new ones to come. E block was expecting one in another month or so, but for once in their life, one convict was relieving. They didn't have to always focus on three at a time; it was tiresome after a while.

And so the majority of the guards were off for the day; a lone floater was left inside the Green Mile, covering for the regulars. The guards were out and away, far from the prison, enjoying the luxury of their own homes, whilst the lone guard was trapped inside his own version of "hell". He did not enjoy C block, so why would he enjoy E block? The smell was god awful, like any prison, and the prisoners he encountered pissed him off, and seemed to piss him off real good; and he had no idea why? Just the thought of the convicts sparked his rage.

The one and only convict left in the mile was Freddie. He sat alone in his cell, twiddling his thumbs as the minutes passed by. For once, he wasn't tied to a chair, wasn't forced to entertain himself with their mere toys, and it was by sheer luck that the floater did not enjoy soap operas in the least. Freddie hated prison; it made him regret a lot of things in his life, but the crime. Why was he punished for the crime that was committed when it was by every individual's free will that they ended their life? That was the million dollar question that Freddie would never be able to answer; and never would. He was sick of prison, he was sick of being in a cage; he needed to get out, or he would go insane. He had to think of something, something fast.

Freddie peered out from the bars of his cell, and glanced to his right, looking at the floater nibbling on some crackers at the main desk. He was playing cards with himself; oh how Freddie wished that he could have a deck of cards within his hands.

"Hey floater," Freddie shouted in a nasty tone of voice.

The guard looked up, and saw an outstretched arm peeking from the cell. "What do ya want?"

Freddie sleekly smiled. "Are you having fun playing cards with yourself? It looks like 'clock' to me."

"Sure is," the guard said as he continued his game.

"Can I play a game?"

The guard stopped, and dropped his cards, "You know I can't let you out, if that's what you want."

"No, no, no…" Freddie stuttered. "Bring a chair and a desk here! Maybe we can play a little game of cribbage through the bars."

"No," the guard answered.

"Please sir, I'm bored and I need a source of entertainment," Freddie pleaded. "Oh, please sir! There's no one to talk to, nothing to do here, except stare at a fucking wall! Please sir, I beg you!"

Having enough of Freddie's antics, the man quickly rose from the desk, piling his cards into a neat deck. He made sure that they were perfectly in place before grasping the chair behind him, and bringing it towards Freddie's cell. It didn't take long for a small stool to come into play as the table for the two. The game was something small. As the guard shuffled the many cards, he said:

"I'll go first."

Freddie responded, "You must like power."

"Oh?" the guard said curiously.

"You sure give in easily to people who beg. You'd be the perfect specimen for the medieval era; a king perhaps; one that kills. Are you a killer, sir?"

The guard took Freddie's words as an insult rather than a compliment; and it was. Unfortunately, no one warned the C block guard about Freddie, and how he should stay away from the prisoner; to the guard, he didn't know any better.

* * *

Brutal was out in the small city, away from his small acreage a little ways from town. He came to the city to run a quick errand; a doctor's appointment to be exact. He wasn't feeling himself lately, and thought that a walk-in visit would do him good; and it did, for they found the source of the ailment. There was an infection on his leg, that wasn't being treated properly. Brutus thought that he was doing just fine, until his days felt endless, and he felt as if he was going to throw up every passing second. After the visit, he paid for the medication that the doctor ordered for him to take. Brutus left the pharmacy with a small paper bag in hand, carrying the pills. There was one for his flu-like symptoms, and one to rid of the infection and inflammation on his leg.

Brutus carried on down the street, looking for his car. After several minutes, he found it at the corner – and to his luck – with a ticket attached to the window. He pulled the ticket from the glass, and took a long look at it, "Just what I need." It was as if medicine wasn't expensive enough.

Brutal turned without looking, and a petite body slammed into his chest. The figure bounced back slightly, the body hitting the side of his car. Brutus managed to grasp the individual before it fell towards the ground. When all was well, Brutus gazed upon a young woman, wearing a yellow coat, accompanied with a flowered skirt. She wore a sun hat, although it was pouring rain. She was beautiful.

"Hello, missy" Brutus smiled.

The young woman pulled away, embarrassed at the situation unfolding. "Excuse me sir, I would like to chat, but I am terribly late."

"Late for what," Brutal chuckled.

"Sir, I don't know you; why would I tell you such a thing?"

Brutus wished he could explain it all to her, but he would come off sounding like a perverted man with nothing better to do than 'woo' young women. She was beautiful, what else could he say? "Are you alright?"

"I'm late!" the young woman stated again, she brushed past Brutus, not bothering to look back.

He did have to agree with the young lady though; he did sound like a creeper. But yet again, that is what mysteriously happens to an individual who is under the spell of love at first sight.

* * *

Dean was sitting on the couch at Paul's house, watching the clock tick by the second. He watched each hand closely, day dreaming of what the world has come to, and what it will bring for the future. It was some deep shit, but what else could he do to pass the time? He was at Paul's place for a nice chat, but that soon ended with the arrival of a mysterious guest, of whom Paul requested complete privacy. Dean wanted to leave, but knowing Paul, Dean would get a ten minute lecture the next day at work. After fifteen long minutes, Dean could hear footsteps atop the stairs. They were the footsteps of the mysterious guest along with Paul. They chatted about nonsense for a little bit longer, before Paul wished the man good luck with his journeys. Paul turned to Dean.

"You're still here?" he chuckled. "I'm surprised that you didn't leave when you had the chance."

"Paul, if I did, I wouldn't hear the end of it for the next week. You would never trust me again. Who was that by the way?"

Paul wrapped an arm around the young man's shoulder and brought him into the kitchen, "A friend."

Dean wasn't going to get much more of an answer from Paul.

"Anyway," Paul started. "How are you feeling?"

"W…what do you mean?" Dean questioned.

Paul shrugged. "Just wondered, you seem flustered and all before. Is your rage still getting the better of you?"

"Are you my psychiatrist?" Dean snarled.

Paul raised his hands in surrender, "Hey, don't shoot me. I'm thinking of paying a visit to Harry tonight, would you like to join? I'm sure having two companions over would be more settling than just one."

"Is that why you asked me to be here?"

"No," Paul answered. "You know we don't discuss work once we are out of the mile, but this is an exception."

There was a long pause, "Okay?"

Paul leaned against the kitchen cupboard. "Something is not settling right with that prisoner of ours. I'm thinking of refusing to let any other prisoners inside E block, until Freddie is dead. Now, Brutus took me aside, and told me exactly what happened between them; what they discussed; the details of Freddie's journey."

"And," Dean urged Paul to continue.

"It's disgusting, vile, and horrific."

"So," Dean started as he gazed upon the wooden floor. "What does it have to do with me?"

Paul stood up straight, and wandered throughout the house. Dean followed, "I want to terminate Freddie early. These antics have gone long enough, and what happened to Harry crossed the line. Obviously, he is toying with everybody's minds and I am quite sick of it. I've studied this man every night, and have found his motive with every one of us inside the mile. He wishes to cause havoc amongst us friends and co-workers. You were the first. He was meaning to create rage and anger among you in order to turn you against me within the mile. It's a good thing we stopped that as quick as possible. He used Harry's weakness at the moment as a means to kill himself. With me, he's trying to turn you all against me, because I have a strong will, and don't take any shit from criminals like him. On top of that, I've punished the poor man, so there's an obvious vendetta targeted towards me."

"And what of Brutal?"

"Oh, he's not done with him yet. I have a feeling that he wants Brutal to become a monster. Each day he taunts the big guy. It's as if he's asking for a death sentence before his time."

"So why is he doing it?" Dean asked. "Is there a theory?"

Paul didn't hesitate to answer, "Because we are his new source of entertainment, and pain is his joy. There's nothing he would rather do than make us all suffer. That man is sick, and brilliant. And if we don't end him quick, he may escape unnoticed and then the town is in chaos within the next day. You are here with me as a witness. I want Freddie dead within the next week!"

* * *

Their game of cards lasted for another two hours, and within that two hours, not one person had stopped by to check on the lone guard. Freddie intentionally lost several times, in order for the guard to think highly of himself, and more importantly, to waste some extra time.

"Shit, you win again," Freddie said, raising his hands in the air.

"Something tells me that you aren't even trying," the guard replied.

Freddie shifted his eyes towards the guard's belt, of which the many magic keys were hanging. They were easy to grasp, easy to pick without anyone noticing. However, the guard was too far to reach. Freddie's extra cards suddenly slipped from his hands, landing onto the green flooring in the mile, outside his cell like a fallen leaf. They were in reach, but Freddie refused to pick up the cards. With a grumble, the guard knelt forward, picking up the many cards one by one. After doing so, he slowly looked up into Freddie's eyes, glowering upon him with pure evil and…satisfaction.

Without warning, Freddie grasped the guard's collar and pulled him forward; the floater's head hitting the cell bars with a mighty force; causing his nose to bleed. Before the guard could react, or cry for help, Freddie quickly pulled a needle from behind, and stabbed it into the side of the man's neck. The guard gasped for air, and silently cried in pain, as he was injected with an unknown fluid. When the horrible deed was done, the guard collapsed, and moved no more. With all his might, Freddie pulled the guard's motionless body forward from within the cell, and brought him close to the bars. Once he was in the right position, Freddie snatched the keys and tried each one in the keyhole, before finally hitting the jack pot. And like magic, the door opened. He attempted to be as quiet as possible, but there was no use in that tactic when it came to the steel door. Someone could have easily heard the quarrel, if not the door, so it was now a race against time. According to Freddie, it was easier to escape prison during the evening hours, rather than during the night. Nightlife was quiet; and full of security and snipers; the evening was filled with guards punching in and out of their shifts for the day. He would blend in while the gates were wide open. Freddie hooked the keys between his teeth, and grasped the limp guard's ankles. He dragged the man down the stretch, and into the isolated office. Once inside, Freddie quickly closed the door. He dropped the guard, who was now lying flat onto his back. Freddie checked the man's pulse and heartbeat; there was none. Great, everything was going according to plan.

He then proceeded to dress down the man, shaking every part of the uniform from his body. It took a little more than fifteen minutes, but none the less, he was fully dressed in the black prison guard uniform of Cold Mountain, cap and all, and was ready to make an attempted escape throughout the prison. Freddie rid of the wrinkles in the clothing, before dragging the former guard's lifeless body into a nearby closet. When all was said and done, Freddie snatched the cap, and placed it upon his head. He gazed into the mirror…

…He looked exactly like them.

* * *

Paul and Dean were once again, inside the living room, debating over a cup of coffee. They talked about the idea that Paul considered to be put into action as soon as possible. Afterwards, talk about work was beginning to become tiresome; so they chatted about the present.

"So the two little ones are in school?"

"Yes," Dean replied to Paul's question. "Yes, they are. They grow up fast."

"And so they shall," Paul concluded, as he heard the telephone ring throughout the house. "Excuse me."

Paul made his way towards the kitchen. He turned the corner, and found the telephone. When it was in reach, Paul gladly picked it up and spoke, "Edgecomb residence."

"Paul." It was the voice of Hal.

"Hal," Paul whispered. "What do you need?"

"Something has happened inside the prison; E block in particular. We need you here as soon as possible!"

* * *

_Chapter 14 is next..._


	14. Breaking the Terrible News

Breaking the Terrible News:

Paul placed a crooked finger on his bottom lip. He bit it once or twice as he gazed upon a man's body, neatly placed inside the closet. It was sprawled inside, among the many boots and coats alike; a prison uniform was placed over the head of the corpse. An investigator removed the dirty clothing from the body, and observed the man with his eyes wide open, staring into the abyss; and his mouth gaped slightly. The forensic investigator continued to examine the body as Hal brought Paul over to the right and whispered:

"So," Hal started. "This is the doing of your petty prisoner?"

Paul nodded, "Yes, sir. I firmly believe that. I confirm that rather."

Hal crossed his arms, "I want to know why that man was alone. There was nobody around to check on the guard, for hours on end? There was no person of higher authority there?"

"It was all a part of the schedule. There was only one prisoner. We didn't think that he would attempt to do such a thing."–

"Well, then I'm going to have to change that schedule." Hal continued to shift his eyes towards the body, and then straight back to Paul. "We learn off of our mistakes, do we not?"

Paul agreed.

Hal continued his speech, "The thing is, is that now that man is on the loose. He's most likely out of the prison, and he's probably amidst the everyday population. Only you know how dangerous this man is, don't you?"

Paul shrugged, "I'm not sure sir."

Hal's jaw dropped to the floor. "Not sure? What in the flying fuck are you unsure about? A guard is dead, he killed a guard."–

"But not with his bare hands," the forensic investigator interrupted.

Both Paul and Hal neared the body. They focused on the investigator, who was holding the victim's jaw with great force. He pulled forward, revealing a small red prick near the corpse's collarbone. The investigator took a deep breath before speaking, "Looks like our friend here, was not strangled…but injected."

"Injected?" Hal questioned.

The investigator nodded, "Yes that mark can only come from a needle. I don't know what he was injected with, but it's most likely a poison."

Paul's ears perked. "Poison…but where did he obtain poison, let alone a needle?"

The forensic investigator tossed some suggestions into the ring. "This isn't really my department, but I'd say the lack of security, and body searching would do the trick. Once the prisoner is inside that cell for the very first time, they could easily take their smuggled belongings out from their pockets, and stuff them under a pillow."

Hal and Paul both stared at the man, flabbergasted.

The investigator shrugged, "What? I come here at least once a week." The man pulled a cigarette from his back pocket, and lit it with a match. He blew a puff of smoke into the air. Paul was not impressed. He didn't mind others smoking, but on his block, that was an unacceptable action. "Now, police will take the body to my lab, and confirm the cause of death there, alright? Now, I suggest that you better start on finding this man, before he kills more people. He's on Death Row for a reason."

Paul carefully watched the investigator leave the scene. The door slammed, and Paul glared at Hal. "Well, we better find that man. If he knows the right people, or even gets his hands on a gun, then there will be no stopping him. He's a strong manipulator, with a weak body. We do not know what an offender like him would do next."

Hal nodded. "I'll make sure the prison keeps a good eye inside Cold Mountain. He's probably near the area, considering that we found this poor soul late this evening."

Paul sighed, "I'm going to round the boys for a cup of coffee. There are no more prisoners in E block for the moment, so I think security is really unnecessary at the moment. I've got to tell them what's going on, because I have a bad feeling."

Hal squinted, "A feeling?"

Paul could barely understand his thought, but in the end, he kept it to himself, "Never mind."

* * *

The four guards were gathered at Paul's farm; some drinking coffee; others with stronger tastes. They all sat around a small table. Brutus and Harry both had cards strewn into their hands, whilst Dean was lounging backward, feet on the table, with a cigar between his fingers. Paul had a distorted look upon his face. He bit his cheek, then his tongue, wondering how on Earth he was going to tell his friends what was occurring at the mile. But no matter how you sliced the situation, they all had a right to know; for they worked right alongside Paul.

Brutus placed a card down on the table quietly. He shifted his eyes towards Harry; who bore a perplexed expression upon his face. "My god Brutal, you beat me."

Brutus chuckled, "After years, and years of practice, I've done so!"

Dean leaned forward, "Oh Brutal, Harry is a little shaky. He hasn't got much practice. You know, with his days off and all."

Brutus shook his head, "He's had more than enough time to practice on his leave." Brutal snatched the cards upon the table. He shuffled them into his hands.

Meanwhile, Paul gazed upon his fellow companions. "Guys, there is something urgent that I have to tell you."

Brutus stared blankly at his coffee, his hands still shuffling the cards. Harry and Dean couldn't bear to take their eyes off of Paul. "What is it?" Brutal piped up.

A shiver travelled down Paul's spine. It took a lot of courage, but it didn't take long for the words to come spilling out of his mouth. "Freddie, our prisoner, escaped yesterday. The guard got too close to the bars, and so Freddie injected him with a poison of some sort. He took the guard's clothing, and used it to escape during shift changes; nothing was unusual until approximately seven o'clock in the evening."

There was an awkward silence for the longest time, until Harry leaned forward, "So, what do we do?"

"Well, I have a disturbing suspicion," Paul blatantly said.

Dean bit his cheek, "And what is that suspicion?"

Paul couldn't hold his beliefs hostage anymore. "Freddie hates the four of us…he hates…all of us. We placed him into that cell; that cell which held him prisoner until his death. Like any other prisoner, he hates us. But now that he's escaped…" Paul trailed off.

Brutal finished the sentence, "You believe that he's going to come after the four of us, and attempt to kill us?"

Paul didn't know what to think anymore. "I cannot confirm that. For all I know, he could have a vendetta against the whole world for sentencing him to death. He's got to entertain himself, and his way of entertaining is inflicting pain onto others. Rage and revenge is now in the mix."

Dean added sarcastically, "Well, I'll be sleeping with one eye open tonight."

Paul sneered, "I would hardly call this a humorous situation, because you may have to. Hal has issued a warning for all civilians over the radio. We have to protect our families and our friends."

Brutal asked the final question, "What are we going to do?"

Paul answered, "He needs to be retrieved; dead or alive. We are cops too, technically speaking. We hold a weapon upon our belt. Now, I'd prefer if he was alive, so we can go back to our normal duties, and carry out his sentence while holding our heads up high. But if you are threatened in any way, or if he's going to pose a threat to any sort of human life, rid of him. Just make sure that you are armed at all times." Paul paused momentarily before continuing, "Continue your everyday lives for now. I'm sure we will cross paths with Freddie. Unfortunately, the mile is still open, and we are going to retrieve that prisoner from the infirmary next week. Be careful, all of you. I'd hate to see you all dead."

* * *

_Chapter 15 is next..._


	15. Family Gathering

**AN: A small filler chapter, there will be more action and drama in later chapters. Thanks for all those who've read the story and have reviewed. If you enjoy my writing, don't hesitate to check out my other stories. Also, if you have any suggestions to make this story better, comment!**

**Have a great night, and enjoy the chapter! **

* * *

Family Gathering:

Two days later, both Paul and Brutal were patiently sitting inside Harry's living room; they made room on the couch. Paul sat poised as usual, whilst Brutal slouched forward, with his tie undone. Brutal hadn't worn a suit in years. The only time he wore a tie was during work hours, or during a celebration, such as a wedding.

Unfortunately, the time of celebration wasn't in working order. Approximately an hour ago, the two returned from a funeral; Harry's youngest daughter's funeral; Cassandra Casselii's for short. Supporting their close friend and co-worker was the least that both Paul and Brutus could do. Harry and his loving wife invited their friends and family over for a nice brunch. Paul and Brutal were joined by Harry's other girls; one with a husband and child herself, and the other alone with a cup of coffee in hand. Like their mother and father, the death of their sister was shocking; and they could hardly believe that she was gone from this world. Another body was inside the house; the late Cassandra's husband, who most likely took the news the hardest. Several questions entered his mind every day; sometimes blaming himself for not protecting his wife's precious life harder. If he would have gone with her that morning, maybe she would still be alive.

But she was gone now; and all that they could do was pray to God; hoping that Cassandra's soul would enter the afterlife safe and sound.

Brutal unbuttoned his top collar. He felt as if he was choking. Was it the air that day?

Harry entered the room with two cups of coffee in both hands; Mary trailed behind with other drinks; maybe stronger ones. Harry smiled gleefully as he handed each of his guests their beverages; making each and every one feel as if they were at home. Brutus wondered how on Earth his friend could be so happy during a time of grieving. According to Mary, Harry seemed to be doing a lot better after his week's leave from the mile. Paul and Brutus never told Mary about Harry's potential suicide at the Green Mile. If she would have caught wind about that information, she would probably drop from a heart attack. But like any promise, what happened at the mile, stayed there, and always will.

Paul grasped his drink from Harry, and smiled. "Thanks Harry."

"No, thank you Paul and Brutal for taking the time out of your busy lives, to come to the funeral," said Harry, as he and Mary finished serving their guests. "It was a nice ceremony, was it not?"

Brutus agreed, "It sure was."

One of Harry's other daughters, Alana, tapped on the side of her glass. "The priest was humble, and Kevin's Eulogy of Cassandra was, how do I say this, modest?"

Cassandra's husband glared at both Paul and Brutus as he spoke, "It was a perfect tribute," he raised a finger into the air, "Kevin is a family friend of the Terwilliger residence. I'm sure that Harrys' spoken of him every now and then."

Paul nodded, "Yes, maybe once or twice." There was a pause amongst the group. Paul added, "Well, it is a time of acceptance more than grief."

Mary shook her head, "Yet there is still a lot of grief amongst us at this very moment." She said while looking at her other daughter, Taylor, with a baby caressed in her arms. Taylor Terwilliger also acquired a four year old, but he was at the neighbors for the time being.

The baby started to squirm, let alone cry in her arms, "Poor Cassandra, it's such a shame. She was young, beautiful, and never had any children to call her own."

Harry bit his lip, "Yeah, I was the one who was supposed to die before any of you." Harry took a large gulp of his drink; it was a scotch, something strong for the still weak soul.

Paul chuckled, "That's what any father wishes for, Harry. Every single one hopes that they would be the first to kick the bucket; but unfortunately, life throws curveballs, and will not hesitate to change the rules." From this day forward, the Terwilliger family will never be the same, but Paul, Brutus and the others at the Green Mile, would make sure that the family ended up okay.

Harry spoke again while looking at his friends, "The burial is later this evening. You don't have to join us if you don't want to. I'm sure the both of you have other commitments to attend to."

Paul waved his hands in front of his body, "Harry, I'm in no rush what-so-ever."

Brutus coughed, "I'm not feeling quite myself. I'm afraid I won't be able to make it."

Paul raised a finger, "Oh, Dean sends his condolences. He wishes that he was here, but there was nobody available to take his shift."

Harry acknowledged Paul's statement, "Thanks a lot guys. Oh by the way, there are finger sandwiches inside the kitchen. Not everybody is hungry right now, so help yourself whenever you are ready. Mary sure knows how to toss salads." After stating the fact, he winked towards his wife.

Mary was pleased, but everybody else in the room seemed to have rolled their eyes in disbelief. It wasn't long before Paul and Brutal rose to their feet, entering the kitchen with great stealth. They were the only ones inside the kitchen, for now. According to Paul, privacy was in order.

As they snatched a glass plate, and the various foods on top of the counter, Paul whispered towards Brutal. "I know that this isn't the right place to talk about this subject, but have you found anything strange happening lately around the house or amongst the city in any way possible?"

"Oh, you are talking about our escapee," Brutus continued to pile the finger sandwiches on top of his plate. "No, the search party is out and about as usual, and we all have our guns attached to our pockets. You know, he may have taken a bus. He's probably out of the state of Louisiana by now; it has been more than a week since his break-out."

"But it doesn't_**fee**_**l** like it." Paul didn't hesitate to emphasize his statement. "I can _**feel**_it in my bones. I _**feel **_as if he is watching me every night; staring at me through my bedroom window. Brutus, he was behind **bars,** and now that he's loose, I'm not sure what he is capable of. In truth, I'm afraid."

Brutus glanced over his shoulder. "Well, we'll take it one day at a time; and be cautious like we are now. I'm sure in the next week the local police will have caught the man. He can't hide forever."

Paul took a deep breath, "Maybe he can."

Brutus smirked, "Only a magician can make himself disappear. And we know for a fact that Freddie isn't a magician in the slightest."

* * *

_Chapter sixteen is next..._


	16. Sandra Part 1:

Sandra Part 1:

Freddie was impatient, extremely impatient. He'd been running from the police unit for over a week; and he waited for the day he would be able to walk into the sunlight without having to worry about being slammed against a brick wall, and sent back to E block; where he would eventually be fried by the electric chair. The thought of what the men called, Ol' Sparky was unnerving then, and still is now. For a strong willed man, deep down inside, he was afraid of dying. If he wasn't, he would have just stayed put in his cell, and be tortured with useless entertainment for the rest of his life.

For that one intense week, Freddie was staying with a friend. Like the friend he had in the past, this new one was also a chemist; making cannabis for his own intentions. He had other chemicals, and solutions premixed, and some in their original containers, stored and scattered in the many rooms of his apartment. The place was homely; so many dark secrets lay between the walls. The blackness inside the apartment was good for a man hiding amongst the shadows; sheltering himself from the cruel, harsh world. Though Freddie and Mr. Chemistry were good friends, they never talked much. They were both too "busy" for their liking. So in the meantime, Freddie was bored to death. He rested his head against a bare wall that obtained many cracks and fractures between the dull paint.

Freddie held a lot of resentment throughout his life. He resented the many people who made sure he was sentenced to death, for the deaths amongst friends and family caused by his hand. He held resentment against his former colleagues; who did not attempt to protect him from the judge's hand. Freddie's inner punishment was wishing death upon all of his friends, family, and others who did him wrong. Again, he held several vendettas, but there were four in particular. They were against four grown men, and especially one came into mind; Paul Edgecomb. Maybe boss wouldn't remember him, but he would remember Paul. It was a scary scenario in Paul's case.

Freddie glanced forward, staring at the people with hollow eyes. A cunning smile lay upon his face, as he soon found himself behind the main reservoir. Water from the many rivers and streams around Louisiana supplied the town with their resources. Just like the prison, security was low; so it wasn't that challenging to sneak throughout the maze of a building. As Freddie jumped between the light and the shadows throughout the large facility, he managed to discover a lab coat, and a safety hat and glasses for a sly disguise. And no one seemed to question. Maybe they would find suspicion in this man later on during the afternoon, so Freddie couldn't be around for too long, or he may find the police at the front and the back doors within less than an hour. Looking out and about, Freddie found an opening inside the facility leading to a side room, slightly open too. Following the light behind the door, it eventually led Freddie to the water filtration system. Open access, twenty four hours, seven days a week! The giant room welcomed him with open arms, along with a lone worker in the corner; who took a second glance at Freddie once or twice. He seemed to have questioned Freddie from a distance, but Freddie pretended not to hear. When Freddie didn't comply with the man, the man didn't hesitate to disappear from the area.

That's when Freddie feared the worst; but the worst was behind him for the moment; he was on a mission, and he surely wanted to accomplish that mission. Freddie glanced at the dirty water on one half of the room. As he continued to gaze, he noticed that there was a slight current nearing the middle. Freddie followed the water, which entered a large filter; and like magic, the water was almost crystal clear. Freddie did not understand too much about technology these days, but he was young. There was much more in store for him in the future. Though complicated in his eyes, the deed was quite simple. Freddie held three tubes within his hands; one green, one yellow and one pink. The last vial was an odd colour choice, but that was the outcome of the final solution. Freddie stretched an arm outwards, and turned the green vial upside down; the oozing liquid entering the clean water, and dissolving almost immediately. He did the same with the other vials. He blinked once or twice during the reaction, and soon the water became crystal clear once more.

When all was said and done, Freddie quickly stormed out from the room, and managed to escape the facility. He would come back tomorrow with three more.

* * *

In the city, Brutus sat on a lone bench at the bus station amongst other people. He waited patiently, with a briefcase in hand. Minutes ago, he'd just finished with the final bank statements, to finally cut his account along with other ties to the previous bank. He was no longer under their control during the depression. He managed to make it without losing another penny from his personal vault. He was in charge of his life from that day forward. At most times, home banking would be a hassle, yet alone another chore; but during a recession, it was every man's dream to free himself from the hell…the hell that the many banking companies had caused amongst their people. The stock market crashed months ago, and one third of the country was out of work; possibly more. It was terrifying to think of the final outcome. The homeless, and how helpless they all are with little to no money, and food; their instincts would have no choice but to interfere. This was a fight for survival. Brutus could only imagine the rise of the crime rates over the next two years. The Green Mile may be busier than usual. There may be no room left in their cells if people don't learn to behave. They don't seem to in B and C block now, imagine what would be in store for Cold Mountain in the near future.

Brutus had been waiting near the stop for at least two hours. He glanced at his watch a couple of times and was finally getting restless. He was excited, but yet impatient. He had to go to work for nine, and it was already five o'clock! Brutus crossed his fingers and hoped that she'd come by soon –

"How long have you been waiting here for?" A nearby woman questioned.

Brutal raised an eyebrow whilst glaring at the woman. As three times before, she continued to wear the same yellow coat, and sunhat. He couldn't even tell what the colour of her hair was. "What do you mean?"

"Alright," she started. "I'm sick of you fucking with me. I mean, you are basically stalking me. I'll make sure to file a restraining order as soon as I get home."

Brutal rose to his feet, "Lady, calm down, please."

She laughed in dismay, "What do you want?"

Brutal smiled in return, "I just want to get to know you."

"Do you really?" she commented. She waited for a reaction from the man.

Brutus nodded, "Yeah, it's crazy really. I never thought I would be the one to fall for love at first sight." Brutal pulled a rose from his coat, and presented it to the woman. She grinned from ear to ear, as she tightly clutched the flower, and brought it against her nose. She truly wanted to hide her happiness from this handsome man, but it was hard to do so. She periodically smelt the pure scent of the rose.

The woman drew a breath and smiled, "Do you want to go out for supper or not?"

Brutal clapped his hands together, "Of course, I'd thought you'd never ask…umm…"

"Sandra," she finished.

Brutus smiled gleefully, "I'm Brutus. It's sure nice to meet you Sandra."

* * *

Both Paul and Dean sat at the main desk in the vacant Green Mile, playing a game of cribbage. According to Hal, they were to receive a new prisoner in the morning. Harry got Paul to look at the profile. It wasn't anything new to Paul; it didn't move him in the slightest. The man known as Killian was charged for theft, apparent murder, and a hit and run; Killian was found guilty on all three charges; therefore sentencing the man to death. He was to arrive in Cold Mountain by truck, bright and early in the morning.

Paul and Dean were nearing the end of their game, when they were interrupted by large footsteps. The two looked upwards, and found Brutus marching towards the desk. Once reached, Brutus knocked upon the desk with a wide grin. He clapped his hands together, and broke the news to his fellow companions.

"I got her, Paul. I got her, Dean."

Both Paul and Dean raised an eyebrow with curiosity in mind. "I have no idea what on Earth you are talking about." Paul stated.

Brutus furrowed his brows, "Paul, I told you before, I met this wonderful woman."

"Oh yes," Paul recollected. "I'm sure she'll file a restraining order against you, if you don't stop bothering her." Paul looked at Dean. "He was to ask her out."

"Did you succeed?" Dean questioned.

Brutus coughed. "Well, if I didn't, then I wouldn't have this shit eating grin upon my face…would I?"

Paul nodded his head, "What's her name?"

Brutus wasn't hesitant to reply. "Sandra was her name."

Paul scoffed, "Is she dead?"

Dean was confused, along with Brutus. Unfortunately, no one caught sight of Paul's grammar correction.

Dean added, "That's a nice name for a lady. How old is she?"

"Oh, I don't know, but it doesn't matter, because we are going on a daaate!" Brutus felt like Scrooge on Christmas morning. His was as merry as a school boy, and just wanted to stand up on his head. He was infatuated with this young lady, but was he really in love? That was a question he'd have to answer for another time.

"Speaking of dates," Paul interrupted Brutal's party, "Harry invited us all for drinks on Friday."

Brutus questioned, "Where?"

"Casaloma," Paul answered. "It's in the city. It's like a dinner theatre, so yes Brutus; you will have to pull your suit from the closet once again."

Brutus wrinkled his nose, and whined, "That's twice in one week."

Dean spread his palms along the table. "I don't see what's wrong with suits."

Paul answered with glee, "He's only got one, because it's hard to find one with his size."

"Not just that," Brutus added, "But I always feel like my necks in a sling with that tie. It's really, really uncomfortable.

Paul chuckled, "There will be drinks to go around, and show girls. It's a men's only night for us boys."

"I'm in," Dean acknowledged the invitation.

"Sure," Brutus said, as he twiddled his thumbs. "Oh, please excuse me I must go find some water. My doctor has been telling me to hydrate my body often because of my medication. Y'all should too, considering that the blistering heat is once again upon us."

Paul agreed when he took out a handkerchief from his back pocket, and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

* * *

_Chapter 17 is next..._


	17. Sandra Part 2:

Sandra Part 2:

Brutus whispered to himself quite frequently. Decisions, decisions…he couldn't think of what to get? Brutal thought to himself for another five minutes, irritating the individual in front of him. Brutus lowered the menu, and glanced at Sandra across from him.

Both Brutal and Sandra were out on that Friday night, enjoying the early evening at Casaloma. It was a bar and restaurant filled with an enormous amount of entertainment at eight. Casaloma was a fancy place, so dresses and suits among them were the main décor for the event. Brutal only had one suit. He wore the same suit as he did at the funeral. And Sandra was a city girl, for she shopped till she dropped; she had a gown for every occasion, and it blew Brutal's mind completely. He could never understand women, and yet it seems like they understand men more than themselves.

Sandra tapped her fingers on the table while waiting for Brutus to finish deciding. Her glass of wine was diminishing and she noticed that the waiter wasn't coming by the table like he used to. It's as if he's getting tired of waiting himself; oh, how she wanted another glass of wine; hoping to get herself on the brink of being drunk. She wasn't in the mood for dating, especially a man like Brutus, but she needed something to do in her life that wasn't work, work and more work.

Sandra wasn't supposed to be here anyway. According to Brutus, it was a men only night, but something in Brutus' mind told him to ask Sandra out for another date. They would come early, before the party and have a bite to eat, whilst waiting for their friends to come along later in the evening. Dean would still be at the mile, along with Paul; though it was only six o'clock. Brutus was getting anxious, along with Sandra.

A worker walked by; Sandra tugged on their shirt as they did so. Once turned, she whispered into the waiter's ear, asking for another glass of wine; it was her third. Brutus bit his lip then lowered the menu.

As soon as he placed it upon the table, like magic, their waiter came to their side, the pen and paper in his grasp, ready to write with pure relief. "Took long enough," he mumbled, in which Brutus could hear perfectly clear.

Brutus clasped his hands together. "I would like the house beet salad, with potatoes on the side." Brutus ordered as he handed his menu back to the waiter. Sandra helped aid the menus back to their source.

Sandra spoke once the waiter turned his attention towards her. She smiled, "I'll just have a Caesar Salad, thanks."

And with that, the waiter was out of sight. Sandra placed her hand against her cheek, and leaned forward. Brutus did the same, just to make the pretty woman smile. He loved it when she did so. She said:

"What?"

Brutus raised an eyebrow, "Just a salad?"

Sandra nodded, "Of course. I'm a grown woman. I have to watch my weight, unlike someone I know." Sandra pointed at Brutal. His cheeks flushed a bright red.

"W…what…I'm not fat, if that is what you are saying!" Brutus felt self-conscious. He pulled at his tie. He would probably be self-conscious for the rest of the night.

Sandra leaned in closer, and tapped on Brutal's hand. "I'm just pulling your leg."

"So, I don't know much about you," Brutus started. "It would be nice to get to know you a little more if you'd let me."

Sandra laughed, "As you know, I live in the city."

"That I do know," Brutal added.

Sandra continued with her hands folded together in a tight fashion. "You also know that I'm a secretary for the governor, and a florist by hobby." Sandra picked up the glass in a ladylike fashion and continued to drink. "You also know that I hate crowds."

"No I did not," Brutus said in defence.

Sandra looked up upon Brutus and snickered, "Where do you work? I would like to know."

"At a prison," said Brutus, now playing with the table cloth.

Sandra pulled at her dress from below, "Cold Mountain prison?"

"Yeah, I'm a guard there," he continued to answer.

Sandra placed a hand upon her chest, "You are humane right?"

Brutus raised an eyebrow, not comprehending the question the way Sandra intentioned. "Of course, but I'm afraid I don't understand."

"What section of Cold Mountain?" she finally asked.

Brutus took a deep breath, "E block. E block is Death Row; the electric chair. Is it humane…no; but the electric chair is what each convicted man deserves." –

"If it is justified," she interrupted.

"It is," Brutus said with irritation, hoping that Sandra would change the topic as quick as possible.

"Brutus, I've been meaning to ask you, are you alright?" she said with her hands clasped together upon the table.

"I'm sorry?"

"You seem very pale," she leaned forwards and placed a hand upon his forehead, feeling the heat radiate from his body. "Are you sure you are alright?"

"Yes," he replied, hoping to flee that subject as well.

"I'm sorry," Sandra said melancholy. She then looked up in surprise and soon the food was upon the table. It wasn't long before the both started eating, and a body sat down beside them. It was Paul.

"Good evening everyone," Paul looked towards Sandra, and spread his palm in front of her, gesturing a handshake. "I'm Paul Edgecomb. It's nice to finally meet you. Brutus has been talking about you almost 24/7; it's beginning to become a chore." –

"Paul!" Brutus exclaimed, his cheeks turning red instantly.

"Oh, you guys are eating. Maybe I should before the party starts," Paul commented, staring at a lone menu at the table across from him, "I see, the lobster here sounds delicious. Is it?"

Sandra shrugged, "I don't know, I don't come here often."

Paul licked his fingers and turned the many pages. He then looked up and spotted women servers, now dressed in a sexy and glittering costume. Paul grinned, "I see that the Flapper girls are already out."

Brutus looked at his watch. "It's almost seven thirty. Everyone else should be here soon," he directed his attention towards Paul, "Dean must be on his way."

Paul fastened his tie while speaking, "He's at his farm. He should arrive later in the evening. I'm sure the two of you will still be enjoying the night with us."

Brutus nodded, "For sure."

The waiter rounded the table, and Paul ordered the lobster that he died to try. Soon the food came, and the three dined together. It was then that Harry joined the crew. It took him a while to find their table, for it was now dark, and the shows had already begun. There was a comedian first, who to Paul was hilarious, to Harry enjoyable and to Brutal and Sandra, amusing. The four drank together. At Casaloma, there were no such things as beers; vodka and gin were the main luxury at the entertainment facility. It was then that Harry drew a cigar from his pocket, and inhaled the large amount of smoke from it. He stared upon the fabulous girls in the chorus, dancing and pleasuring the many men amongst the theatre. He was lost in a trance, with a smile gleaming upon his face. And the funny thing was, he wasn't even thinking about the women upon the stage.

Paul chuckled, "It's been a while since you've been here."

"It has," Harry drew a breath of smoke, and slowly exhaled. Sandra beside him, coughed. "It was twenty-five years ago. Never came back since, until now."

Sandra was confused, "I'm afraid I do not understand your riddles."

Paul snapped his fingers towards Brutus and Sandra. "Alright love birds, listen up. If you are to have a stable relationship, take after this man. His love story should be turned into a book. Isn't that right?"

"Life is too dramatic. Unfortunately, I do not have the time or the patience to write a book about my love life." Harry dipped his cigar in the ashtray. "But if you are dying to know, before my wife became a secretary, she used to be one of those flapper girls upon that stage. Mary was never the shining star amongst the many fabulous girls, but I was sure to notice her."

Paul continued the story, "Turns out that he stalked the poor woman, until she gave in."

Harry shook his head. "I did not stalk her. I just spent the little money that I had to attend every show, in order to show her that I cared."

"Awe," Sandra said. "This is adorable."

Brutal rolled his eyes.

Sandra urged Harry to continue, "So how did she notice you?"

"I didn't look at the woman who was front and center; she was nearly naked. Instead, I looked at that beautiful dressed woman on the side, and never lost sight of her. Soon, she caught my glimpse, and at first, she thought of it as creepy, but then something inside told her that something about me was right."

Brutus entered the conversation, "Then what happened?" He was slightly curious, for he never knew much about Harry's past; even though they were close friends. He liked to keep to himself most of the time.

Harry placed a finger in front of his lips and continued speaking, "I found the dressing room, and asked her to dinner. She never attended another show, and she soon found a more professional job. We got married a year later –"

"I was his best man," Paul whispered towards Sandra.

"And she gave birth to three children. We've been merry ever since." Harry continued to smoke his cigar. "And what's the moral of this story? Be faithful to each other, and if you ever get serious, a reminder that marriage is not only about love, but about commitment. No matter how boring your partner may be in the future, struggle through it, and you shall do well and be highly respected. Paul has done the same. However…" he stopped for a moment, "This is Brutal's first relationship, so I won't be surprised if you two won't be together" –

"My first relationship?" exclaimed Brutal.

Paul stopped Harry there, and laughed. "Okay, Harry I think that's enough."

So the four continued to enjoy themselves amongst the table, and soon the night for them was almost over, and Dean was nowhere to be found. Brutus left the table momentarily to give Dean a quick call. After, he sat back down with the party.

"Where's Dean?" Sandra asked.

Brutus answered, "He's at home. He said that his wife was out and about and that it was his turn to look after the kids."

"That's too bad," Paul said with pure sarcasm.

Suddenly, Sandra spoke up, "I was looking forward to meeting him," she said as she drank a large glass of water. She gulped it down, thirsty as ever from the alcohol and salty foods. The others continued to drink straight scotch and vodka as they watched.

Two minutes had passed, and suddenly, Sandra felt sick to her stomach. She felt something burning inside of her; inside of her throat. It tingled at first, but within seconds, burned to a huge extent. She coughed, her body out of control, spitting up the remaining water clogged inside of her throat. Brutus clasped her arm to hold her steady, while the others were caught by complete surprise. They jumped from their chairs to find the source of the problem.

"Sandra, what's wrong," Brutus questioned with concern.

Sandra pointed to her throat, and yelled, "IT BURNS!"

Paul started, "Are you choking?"

She soon lost her voice, and heaved. It was then that she screamed. "AHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Harry turned towards the audience and screamed for help. Many people gathered, attempting to help the poor woman. She shook violently, and turned blue; holding her throat, which burned as if it was on fire. After several agonizing minutes and terror for everyone surrounding, she didn't feel anything for once, except a small tickle. It was then that she stared into vast space. Her eyes rolled back, and she fell backwards upon the cold, hard ground; motionless.

Everyone inside the bar was in complete and utter shock.

Brutus fell to his knees and slapped Sandra's cheek. "Sandra, Sandra! Answer me!" He grasped both her shoulders and shook them violently, but there was no response. Paul dropped to his knees, and checked for breathing; none. He checked for a pulse; nothing. They all stared upon Sandra with wide eyes, not sure what to say or do in a situation like this. Paul looked out and about, and yelled at the people who couldn't help but stare. "Someone, get a doctor! Please, hurry!"

Then several other screams were heard; ranging from the bathrooms to other tables around the facility, with their drinks in hand. Paul could not bear to see the outcome of those poor people enduring the same thing as Sandra.

Brutus stroked Sandra's hair. He looked upon her throat, and saw small bubbles form from her dead skin. He wasn't quite sure where those sores came from; but he knew for a fact that she did not have those sores before or during the party. Suddenly, both Harry and Paul had a thought.

"Oh no," Harry whispered. "That looks like acid to me…Mary!" he yelled, and left the scene.

"The water," Paul murmured. "The water!" he shouted at the others, causing them to scramble from the room. "Don't drink the water!"

"SANDRA!" Brutal wailed, as he cradled her head into his arms.

Harry scrambled towards the phones. He dialed several numbers; first, a familiar one. He waited impatiently, hoping that a certain someone would pick up the phone. He feared for the worst, but soon breathed a sigh of relief.

"Hello," said the sound of Mary's voice.

"MARY!" he screamed.

She pulled the phone away from her ear. "Yes, Harry." She seemed unamused.

Harry breathed quickly, "What did you drink tonight?"

Marry thought for a moment, "Nothing, why?"

"Don't drink the water from our taps, and don't use the water…JUST DON'T TOUCH IT! I beg of you!"

Mary seemed slightly concerned about her husband, "Why Harry, what's wrong?"

"A girl just drank a glass of water from our party, and dropped. She's dead. We suspect it is poison. Others attending are possibly dead too. Paul and I believe that the water is contaminated. I'll explain everything later. Phone Jan, and Emily, please." He hung up, leaving his wife in major concern. He returned to the others, soon finding the many people gone from the scene. A doctor was at Sandra's side, and he confirmed that she was in fact, dead as a doornail.

Paul thought for a moment or two, wondering why on Earth the water in the city was poisoned. He pondered on who would do such a thing to innocent citizens. Then a thought came to mind.

"I phoned Mary. She's alright, and she's spreading the word about this to your wife and Dean."

Paul rubbed his chin. "Shouldn't they be alright, considering that we live in the outskirts?"

"No," the doctor said. "Your water comes from the river. The river might be contaminated. Even if that water is tainted, I wouldn't take any chances."

Paul stood up, and reached Harry's height. As Brutal mourned, Harry locked his eyes with Paul. "Do you know who could have done this?"

Paul licked his lips, "I wish not to say. It's too early. The news tomorrow morning will decipher what's going on? We'll know if the water is poisoned by seeing how many are dead in the morning."

_Chapter eighteen coming soon..._


	18. Attempt

**AN: Reviews are awesome and appreciated! Please follow, favourite and feel free to take a look at some of my other stories.**

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Chapter 18: Attempt One

Harry placed his feet upon the desk at the Green Mile; with the morning newspaper clutched between his fingers. It was a week past Sandra's death, and what a roller coaster ride the lot endured; especially Brutus. Just like himself, Brutus was given the week off to recollect his thoughts and actions. Harry thought about that dreadful night, and what he'd mentioned to Brutus minutes before Sandra's demise. If he hadn't done such a thing, would Sandra still be alive? Harry did not concern himself too much with the incident; instead, Harry decided to focus back onto the fine lined newspaper and flip the many pages inside. He stood attentive on the major issue at the time; which was the poisonings in the Casaloma theatre. It turned out that both Paul and Harry's suspicions were true. Several scientists tested the waters in the city, and the river overnight, and concluded that in fact, the river and the reservoir was contaminated with one of the deadliest poisons in the world; that only a true chemist could compose. And what drove those scientists to observe the water outside of the city? Almost thirty-seven innocent people died beside Sandra, along with several others during mid-morning. Luckily, Harry obtained a secure supply of fresh water that was safe to drink, and bathe in. To Harry, knowing that his family and friends were safe and sound, was the biggest drink of water in the longest drought of his life.

Just then, Paul strode through the door, quiet as a mouse, and placed his possessions along the main desk. Harry dare not smile at the distressed man.

Paul said:

"Harry, how much do you want to bet that someone we personally know was involved in this scheme?"

Harry rested his hand against his cheek, "I asked myself that same question this morning."

Paul set his gaze on the older gentleman, and said with excitement, "I think it was Freddie, our Freddie. I don't know how he did it, but he did."

"Now, now, let's not jump to conclusions." Harry stood up, and spread his palms. "They said that he was lost in the countryside."

"Admit it, the police failed their job." Paul said cold heartedly. "The probability of Freddie residing in the city, hidden amongst the shadows, is higher than him escaping the State. He doesn't like me what-so-ever, or the rest of the town. I expected something like this to occur."

"It's to pleasure that sick man, isn't it?" Harry asked with sheer force.

Paul answered without hesitation, "Yes." There was a brief pause. "That was a nice funeral they had for that young lady. I met her for only a few hours, and she died in minutes. I'll tell you, that I've appreciated life a lot more this year than any other year in my lifetime. I hate to bring up those events, but the night you attempted to commit suicide, gave me a different perspective on life; and how much I take for granted, and what you take for granted. I wouldn't know what to do if I'd lost you. I wouldn't know what to do if I lost Brutal, or Dean, and Jan most of all. I would crumble into pieces. You are all a part of me; you are all a piece of my puzzle. And if one of those pieces it lost, I'll soon be too."

Harry decided to look at the many strewn papers along the desk. "The new prisoners are sleeping at the moment; seduced really. We have colourful and charismatic characters this time around. Appreciate that while you are at it." Harry handed Paul the profiles of the two men, hidden inside the cells. He wondered why it was so quiet inside of the mile, but after glancing at the prisoner's profiles, he knew that it wouldn't be for long.

Paul puckered his lips, "Well, no matter who it was, I'll make sure he gets fried; and within hours too. Forty-three people is forty-three people too many. If I suspect foul play from here on, I'll hunt this man down personally, and shoot him point blank."

Harry drew a breath, and was surprised to hear such a thing come from the lips of his supervisor. "That's heavy Paul."

"I know," Paul concluded before snatching his belongings and leaving the scene. Once Paul was inside the office, and the door was slammed shut, Harry sat back down, and continued to read the depressing paper. After Paul's words, he couldn't help, but wonder what the new future would bring.

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Dean sat in a lone park within the city. He watched the many kids, continuing with life after the sudden tragedies from the night before. Dean was jealous, for sometimes he wished that he could be an innocent child once again, and be shadowed from the cruel ideals of the world itself. After such occurrences, he could wake up the next morning, not remembering, or understanding the situation developing around him. He had children of his own, and he was afraid, afraid for him, afraid for his children. But it was a real shame that they couldn't understand why their father was so protective over these last few days. If only they knew…

Dean continued to examine the park surrounding him. His hands were folded, and he took several deep breaths. He looked at the ticking watch upon his wrist, and realized that he had to work in a little over three hours. His wife was probably worried sick about Dean, wondering why he was taking so long to buy a jug of milk and butter from the petty town.

Dean brought his revolver today; it was concealed. Paul told the group to bear arms, but none seemed to listen, except Dean. He was paranoid before, but now he didn't trust a single person in the slightest, excluding his close friends. After hearing the morning news reports over the radio, he refused to touch the liquids, and urged his own family not to.

Unable to sit still, Dean wandered down the stony path throughout the vast trees and bushes; it was quite crowded. Though if anything absurd happened, the deed could slip unnoticed; pocket thieves in particular. Dean continued to creep down the many paths of the park, attempting to find his sole parked car in the corner.

After minutes of searching, Dean thought it was a good idea to cross the road. And so Dean did so.

All was calm at first, until he could hear the acceleration of a brute car beside him. At the last waking moment, Dean managed to dodge the large piece of steel, intentionally heading towards him at 80 miles an hour. Dean fell backwards whilst doing so, and the car soon halted to a stop. Suddenly, Dean could see all tires spinning in the opposite direction. Several questions entered Dean's mind as the car was yet again, aimed at his body: _Who did I piss off in the last ten years? Who has a Vendetta against me?_

This time, Dean was able to receive a head start. He peered over his shoulder a few times in order to see the vehicle's location. Again, its sights were set on him. It was miraculous that the audience around him did not seem disturbed by the scenario playing out in front of them. As a matter of fact, their actions of nothing were quite disgusting.

It wasn't long before the car stopped, and turned around; driving out into the distance, disappearing from sight. When the coast was clear, Dean slouched over, heaving, and attempting to catch his breath from the quick chase. Then, Dean was surprised to see the same car drive past one last time, surely but slowly; as if everything around him was moving in slow motion. Dean tried to get a glimpse of the obvious man inside the mode of transportation. It was odd; for he couldn't help, but wonder why the individual's face was so familiar.

_Chapter 19 coming soon..._


	19. Another Meeting

**AN: It's been a long time sorry for the wait. Sorry, for this is a short chapter, but there is a longer one coming up, just hold tight. Please read, review and enjoy. Again, I do not own The Green Mile.**

**Cheers.**

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Chapter 19: Another Meeting

Paul, Dean, Brutus and Harry all sat around a round table at Paul's residence; all smoking cigars, drinking scotch and all with many cards in their hands. Even though it was a recreational night for the boys at Cold Mountain, it was also an emergency meeting in which Dean announced the night before. He was adamant that a meeting should be held, and Paul gave in to his cries.

"So," Paul started, taking a quick sip of his scotch. He licked his lips, "Dean, what's the emergency?"

Dean bore a confused face, "What emergency?"

Paul leaned forwards, reaching across the table for a card that was piled in the middle."You called for a spontaneous emergency meeting. It was called just out of the blue. You seemed very anxious over the phone."

Reminded of those recent events, Dean took a deep breath. He glanced across the table, and stared into Brutal's hard eyes before speaking.

"I was minding my own business in the park; just thinking about the water scare; you know, things like that. Afterwards, I crossed the street, and a car almost ran me over."

There was only silence in the air. Some only looked at Dean, confused.

Brutus broke the silence, "So?"

"Purposely," Dean quickly added, "I was crossing the street, and a car almost ran me over! But I knew that it was on purpose, because the car had stopped, and then, and then it reversed! I dodged the car at least 3 or 4 times, before the guy gave up and drove off into the distance."

Paul scoffed, "Does someone have a vendetta against you?"

Dean shrugged, "That's what I thought myself; but as the car drove past one last time, I noticed a familiar face. At first, I could not pinpoint the man...until last night."

"Oh?" Brutal said, intrigued. "Who was it?"

Dean sighed. He hated saying the name, "Freddie."

Paul eyes widened; they were as big as saucers. Harry's mouth was slightly gaped open, along with Brutus who was still slowly shuffling the cards within his big hands.

Paul asked with concern, "What happened last night?"

A chill ran down Dean's spine. "I was getting my daughter ready for bed, like I always do. She was looking for her doll at the moment. So she went out to the patio, because...that was where she had seen it last. Then I realized that she was, gone, for quite some time. So I, being the worried father that I usually am, went out to the patio to retrieve her; or at least check on her. But, when I got there, I looked up, and saw a man in the distance; at least 30 feet from my house. He was staring at Alexandra, and she too, was staring at him. That was when I knew that it was truly Freddie after my head, and after my family."

Paul asked, "What did you do?"

Dean answered, placing a hand on his chest, "I did what any other father protecting his family would do. I grabbed my shotgun, and scared that coward off." Dean took a swig of his drink before continuing, "I'm scared for my life, and for my family's lives. We have to stop this man, Paul. We've got to stop him before he hurts one of us. If we don't stop him anytime soon, he'll find us, and kill us; and even our loved ones if he wishes to do so, in order to entertain himself. It bothers me, I mean, how does he know where I live?"

Harry lowered his cigar, rolling his eyes. "Dean, it's not hard to find somebody's place, even if it is on a farm."

Dean turned to Brutal, his tone becoming more aggressive. "You remember what he did to Sandra."

Brutus stared at Dean with sad eyes. "I remember."

Dean directed his attention towards Harry. He pointed a finger, "Don't you want to protect Mary?"

Harry answered quickly, "Why would you say such a thing?"

"Answer the question!" exclaimed Dean.

"With my life," he said, answering without hesitation.

"I've proved my point," Dean said, waving his hands in the air, "So what are we doing just sitting here, huh? What are we doing? Just sitting here playing cards and waiting for the police to find and rid this man's ass for us?" He slammed his fist against the table. "They won't! They think he is out of the state right now! They won't find him, but we will!" Dean's lip quivered. "I don't want to talk anymore."

Brutus fixed his eyes around the table. Paul was a different shade of red. He then turned to Dean and answered the man calmly, his voice in a beautiful, soothing tone. "Dean, how will we find Freddie? He's a coward who hides amidst the shadows. He could be anywhere."

Paul's ears perked, "Guys, we may have to face the fact that we will not be able to find Freddie...but if he's truly after us like Dean said, and I envisioned, then he'll be sure to come to us!"

Brutus replied to Paul's comment, "So, what's the master plan?"

Paul sucked in air, "Boys, we might be working overtime for the next few days."

_Chapter 20 is next... _

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**_Please review..._**


	20. Got to go to the Mile

**AN: Here's Chapter 20. Please Read, Review, and enjoy!**

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Chapter 20: Got to go to the Mile

Freddie was alone at the moment, in the middle of the night, climbing over an elongated wooden fence. He struggled to climb every now and then, but he managed to climb over the fence without making a single sound. Once he reached the other side, Freddie dusted off the dirt from his pants; he looked up, and gazed upon a country house in front of him. Freddie was a smart man, but sometimes common sense did not compute. He was on a farm; these people only had a semi fence for decoration; he could have used the open driveway.

Freddie quietly made his way to the front porch; he climbed the steps, and gently grasped the door handle; he twisted, and pulled it ever so slightly; and then a small clicking noise was heard. The door was unlocked; Freddie was not surprised. Freddie slowly pulled the door open; there was a large creak. Freddie squinted and winced, hoping that no person heard the man. Freddie did not bother closing the door; for he feared that someone would hear him. Freddie waited a moment or two; he gathered himself together; hearing for a stir amongst the house, but the house was silent. The young man was on his toes; searching and then finding the nearest bathroom. He checked his hair, and fixed his clothes. Freddie was dressed in a prison guard's uniform; the one he stole weeks before. Freddie planned to go to the mile tonight, but it was odd. Why would he go back to the very place that wanted to murder him? Indeed, it was odd, but at this point, Freddie no longer cared. It seemed like all of these recent events that were caused by the madman were no longer created for entertainment purposes, but for vengeance; vengeance against the men, who he sees, are murderers of mankind.

When he deemed himself prim and proper, Freddie exited the bathroom and turned the corner, finding a staircase. He climbed it cautiously; and to his surprise, the stairs were well maintained, and didn't make a single sound. Once he reached the top of the staircase, he took a glance both ways, and searched for a room full of living bodies.

He peered into one, finding only a single sleeping body. It wasn't his target. Freddie tiptoed inside, moving closer to the individual, and scanned the body further; it was a woman. He then stared beside the woman, and noticed that the other side of the bed was not stirred. With a slight grin, Freddie carefully made his way towards the woman's bedside. He sat by her feet; she was sound asleep. She was a lady within her thirties, acquiring golden brown hair, with very little wrinkles, and beautiful; however, it was unfortunate that she was the wife of a certain E block officer; one that Freddie despised the most. Composing himself from excitement, Freddy quickly pulled a small velvet case from a medicine bag attached to his belt. The case popped open, and Freddie pulled a long syringe from the velvet case. He attached a different head for the needle, and raised the entire deadly device to the level of his eyes. He then grasped a vial of fluid from the back of his pocket, and applied it to the syringe; it was a dull-yellow color. After filling the needle with the solvent, Freddie raised the needle back up to the level of his eyes, and squirted a bit of the solvent; some landing on the bed sheets. Freddie leaned in closer to the fine lady, and stared at her peaceful expression. He was inches away from her face, unfortunately, he breathed too heavy.

The woman opened her eyes.

Quickly panicking, the woman screamed, but not for long; for Freddie didn't hesitate to grasp her mouth, and push forwards. He held the woman in place, his eyes shifting from side to side. Freddie stared into the eyes of the poor woman; she was terrified by the sight of the man; for she did not know who she was dealing with. With only her eyes, she pleaded for her life, but Freddie ignored those silent cries. He said in a whisper:

"Where's your husband?" He threatened, "Tell me, or you are going to be dead within minutes."

The woman shook her head, and struggled. She attempted to scream once again; even with a hand covering her mouth. Freddie pushed forwards, keeping the woman still.

Freddie repeated, "I need you to calm yourself, woman. I'll say this again, tell me where your husband is."

When the woman finally relaxed, Freddie slowly released her from his grasp, and lowered the needle to his waist area. The lady's bottom lip quivered, and tears rolled down her cheeks. It was a struggle to speak, but chopped words managed to escape off her tongue

"M...m...my...h...husband?" she hiccupped.

Freddie nodded slightly, "Yes, where is your husband, Paul Edgecomb? You are his wife, Jan, are you not?"

"Yes," she answered.

"Good," Freddie said in a sly tone, "Where is he? Oh, and while you are telling me that bit of information, it would be helpful if you could tell me where his other friends are; Mr. Stanton, Terwilliger, and Howell."

Jan Edgecomb grasped her bed sheets tight; she was full of anger now. She would never betray her friends. Jan shook her head, "I do not! I won't tell you where Paul is; neither would I tell you about his partners' whereabouts either!"

Freddie stared at her, like he was in the home of the bewildered. He then glanced towards the left, noticing undisrupted sheets. He looked back at Jan, "Paul Edgecomb isn't home yet, is he?"

Jan did not answer his statement; instead, Freddie answered it for her.

"He's still at the mile," he said. Then, Freddie quickly snatched Jan's arm, and pulled her close. He held her forearm firmly in place, and sneered, "I'll make sure that I give him a little surprise when he gets home. Finding his dead wife killed by –

_BANG!_

Freddie yelped as he was hit in the shoulder with a large bullet. Small pieces of clothing, along with some skin, were now peeled from his body. Blood spurted along the sheets, some dripping on Jan's hand. She shrieked as the scene unfolded. Freddie's hand spasmed; dropping the needle onto the ground. In a state of shock, and terror, Freddie found an escape route; he glimpsed beside him to find an open window. Desperate, Freddie climbed out of the window, and jumped just as a second shot was fired. Freddie fell ten feet; only twisting his ankle. Paul Edgecomb, Jan's saviour, hustled to the window, and peered downwards, to find Freddie running away from sight. Paul fired two more shots, hoping to drive another bullet into the man; but only hit the ground. Dirt spattered by his feet. "Shit," Paul mumbled.

After the few seconds of terror, Paul raced towards his wife; first embracing her, then grasping both sides of her face. He pulled her close, and attempted to calm his distraught wife.

"Jan, are you alright?" he asked, "Did he hurt you?"

"No," Jan responded, "But, I think he was really after you. H...he...was dressed in a prison guard's uniform, like you. I...I think he's planning to go to Cold Mountain." Then a sudden realization hit Jan. "Who...who's at the mile tonight?"

"Brutal," Paul answered.

Jan shook, "I think he's in trouble. You have to call the others, and Hal; let them know what's going on, and get someone over to the mile right away; the police, perhaps!"

"Yeah," Paul said, clenching his fists together. He held his revolver firmly in place, and opened the chamber, stuffing six bullets inside. He cocked the firearm, after, placing it deep into his belt, "Yeah, I'll call, but I'm going over to Cold Mountain too. Local police will not be able to carry out this job, and reach Brutal in time. I must go, and stop him."

"W...what?" his wife yelled, "You're crazy! That man is dangerous! You cannot go there without aid!"

Paul turned around, and jabbed a finger at Jan before leaving, "No one attacks my wife, and lives to talk about it!"

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"Hal!" Paul screamed into the phone.

Hal Moores winced, "Paul, why are you calling me at one in the morning?"

Paul answered quickly. "Freddie, the loose convict I was talking about before, broke into my home, and attacked my wife. She's fine, but upset. Hal, this man is after us. I...I believe that he is heading to the mile at this very moment."

Hal breathed heavy, "Are you sure that he's targeting E block?"

Paul answered, "100 percent! He's got a guard's uniform on, and he's wounded in the shoulder right now. This might be the climax of our adventures with this man. He's either going to live or die tonight; there will be no sitting on the fence with this man! I want to end this. Phone Dean and Harry; I want my guys to end this with me."

Paul hung up the phone. He then picked it up again, and dialed a new number.

_Chapter 21 is next..._


	21. Freddie vs the Guards

**AN: New Chapter! I write mainly horror, so this chapter was to my liking.**

**Please review!**

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Freddie vs. the Guards:

Brutus sauntered along the halls of the Green Mile with a checklist, and a pen in hand. He proceeded to do a nightly inspection of each prisoner within their cells. From what Brutus could see, the prisoners were sound in their sleep. They were odd prisoners, a good odd, for they caused no trouble during the day or the night. Unlike the others, these prisoners were humble and quiet. Maybe it was the thought of their death that caused them to be that way. Although quiet, Brutus still took the time out of his busy life to talk to the inmates, and get to know their true selves better.

Brutus coughed hysterically. Once he finished his routine cell check, he slowly made his way back to the front desk. Though months had passed, Brutus was still sick, and he refused to see a doctor after his medicine prescription was finished. Brutus felt a pounding throb against his leg. He lifted his pant leg, and saw a scar. The wound was healed, and was rid of infection, but a scar still remained.

Brutus hurried towards the desk. He snatched some cold pills from a medical kit underneath the desk. He opened the bottle, and slipped two white pills into his mouth; he swallowed the pills dry.

Suddenly, there was a ruckus.

_Boom…boom…boom._

Brutus listened, hearing small footsteps, running, in the distance. It was weird, considering that Brutus was the only guard working on E block that night. The footsteps were small, and were loud at times, and quiet at other times. As the haunted footsteps continued, Brutus turned his body towards the corridor, past the office, and followed them. He turned right, peering through the office window, and found nothing but darkness. He continued to the execution room. The footsteps stopped as he drew near.

Brutus peered inside, and again, found nothing. Only Ol' Sparky was in the room, with a small light illuminating its features above it. Brutus entered, and wandered, but still there was nothing present. Suddenly, the footsteps started again. Behind him. He quickly turned around, yet nobody was there. The footsteps continued down the hall, becoming quieter with each passing second. Then they grew loud once more; now behind, above, and from side to side of Brutus' body, and then those footsteps faded momentarily.

Brutus exited the execution room, and stormed the halls. He made his way towards the storage room. He opened the door, and turned on the lights, but there were only cleaning supplies resting inside. The footsteps started again. It sounded as if they were now in the mile. Brutus raised an eyebrow. A shiver then ran down his spine. The situation was becoming unnerving.

The phone rang. _BRRRRIIIINNGGGGG…BRRRRIIINNGGGGG…_

Brutus took a deep breath as he made his way back into the mile. Once he entered, he grasped the phone vibrating at the desk. He raised the telephone to his mouth and ear.

He said in a monotone voice, "E block."

At first, there was a muffling sound, but then a familiar voice emerged. "Brutal, it's Paul!" Paul seemed anxious.

"Paul, it's two in the fucking morning. What's going on? Did you forget something?" Brutus said with his back facing the prisoners.

"Brutal," Paul said, "Freddie broke into my home, and attacked Jan"-

"Jesus," Brutus whispered. "Is she alright?"

Paul assured, "She's fine."

Then all of a sudden, Brutus felt queasy. It hit him in a flash. His stomach churned, and he felt as if the world was constantly going sideways. Brutus breathed heavily; he wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. Brutus thought that he was going to vomit.

Brutus continued to talk, "I…I…I…is he…coming here?"

"Yes!" Paul screamed, "Yes, but we are on our way now! Just hold on until we get there! For now, watch your back!"

_Click!_

Brutus hung up, and placed the phone back onto the desk. A thought then came to mind. Brutus took a step back, and then stopped. _Tap! _There was an extra footstep, one that was not his. Brutus turned around to face-

_WAM!_

Brutus fell onto the desk after receiving a right hook to the jaw. He was stunned after the hit. Brutus felt something wet on his lips. He wiped them, and observed blood on his fingers. Brutus looked up, and noticed a familiar face above him. It was Freddie.

Freddie was dressed like him, in a guard's uniform, but dressed to perfection. He stood erect in front of Brutus. He clenched his fists together, and bore a menacing grin.

Brutus grunted as he kicked his legs forward, striking Freddie in the shins. The young man winced. Brutus prepared to strike again, but Freddie was quick to lunge forward, preparing for another punch. Brutus dodged the attack. Freddie turned around, and took another swing at the large man, this time hitting him, and sending him towards the ground. Brutus was on his knees; he spat blood. Freddie walked over, kicking Brutus in the groin, causing him to collapse. Brutus was a tough man, but his illness soon got the better of him. Brutus attempted to get up, but Freddie forced him back into the dirt with another punch. Again, Brutus rose to his knees, but another punch from Freddie sent him back onto the floor.

Freddie heaved. He watched Brutus struggle to rise from the ground once again. Although Freddie was tired, he could not let the man regain his strength, so he kicked him in the stomach. Brutus continued to spit blood, and his nose was broken. His mouth was agape, and he was drooling. He stared upwards into the cells, and observed the convicts. They all had their fingers wrapped around the bars, their heads dug in between, all watching helplessly.

Brutus looked at one prisoner in particular. The convict was mouthing words, as if he was rooting for Brutus to get up and fight. Brutus would if he could, but dizziness washed over Brutus once more. He lay on the ground, his body searing with pain. He cried.

Freddie said, "You aren't so tough." He wiped his nose with his sleeve. "Mind you, you are ill." Freddie hopped to Brutus' side, and straddled his legs on either side of Brutus' body. Freddie winced as he reached into his medical kit that was strapped to his hip. His shoulder still bled from Paul's bullet from earlier in the morning. Freddie pulled a needle, and a vial of clear solution from the kit. Freddie continued to talk to Brutus as he prepared for a lethal injection.

"You know Brutus. I enjoyed our time together. You are a very interesting man. I got to know the real you."

Angry, Brutus attempted to rise to his feet, but fell on his own.

Freddie continued, "Brutus, I'm that small kid that you once knew years ago. I was picked on all the time for being too small, and too weak to function. Just like that kid from years ago. He and I are alike in some ways, and different in others. But he's not here anymore. So I vouch for him." Freddie sleekly smiled, "I'm here for his revenge, and my revenge."

Brutus' eyes widened. He was quick to act. Brutus managed to get to his knees before Freddie grasped the man's hair. He shook him a bit, and pushed him forwards, back into the ground. Freddie held the needle to the level of his eyes. Freddie said in anger, "You, your friends, and the entire world were against me! You were all laughing at me! Well, who's laughing now?"

Freddie lowered himself to Brutus' level, grasping the poor man's wrists tightly. He readied Brutus for injection. Brutus panicked, and attempted to pull away, but it was no use.

Freddie concluded, "Hush, you're sick! Let the doctor give you some medicine."-

"HEY, FREDDIE!" A voice cried.

Freddie snapped his head upwards, and found three men surrounding his body with revolvers. They all wore their prison guard uniforms. Paul and Dean faced the man's front, while Harry stalked Freddie from behind.

Surrendering his actions, Freddie lowered the needle, and rose to his feet. He held his arms firmly against his waist.

Paul started, "You made a big mistake coming here. It's a death wish as far as I'm concerned."

Freddie chuckled, "Well, I had no choice but to come here! I don't know where everybody lives." Freddie took one step forward, but Paul was quick to stop the man in his tracks.

"If you move without consent, you will be shot dead!"

"Yeah," Dean added, "Don't move you son of a bitch!"

Freddie sighed, "Fine, you got me."

"Now," said Paul, "You are going to listen to my instructions very carefully. That's if you want to live."

"What will it matter?" Freddie said, "I'll still be dead in the end."

Paul ignored Freddie's comment, "Freddie, you are going to back up slowly. Harry's got a gun against your back, so I suggest heeding every word that slips from our mouths.

"Alright," Freddie said. "I'm guessing that I'm being led into that empty cell over there? I must have etched my name into the bars.

"Yes," Paul said, "Go into that cell. That's an order."

Freddie shrugged, "Yes, boss."

Paul, Dean and Harry continued to hold their guns steady. "Back away slowly."

Freddie acknowledged Paul's words. As Freddie moved backwards, Harry did so too, guiding the convict with the barrel of his gun. Freddie peered over his shoulder, glancing at Harry. Paul yelled.

"Freddie! Eyes on me!"

Freddie nodded, and continued to move backwards, not losing eye contact with Paul. After minutes of minor movements, the group finally reached the empty cell. Freddie glanced over his shoulder once again, and watched Harry fiddle with several keys; his gun was no longer against Freddie's back. Freddie inched towards Harry, but no one seemed to notice **his** tiny movements. Freddie continued his actions, with his eyes still fixated on Paul.

Soon Harry found the proper key, and placed it inside the keyhole. He unlocked the cell door. The older guard opened the heavy door with both hands. Freddie peered over his shoulder once more.

Paul said, "Get inside. I said get inside!"

Freddie nodded. He took one more step backwards. Suddenly, he made contact with Harry's side. Freddie clenched the needle beside his waist tight.-

Faster than the speed of light, Freddie whipped his body around, facing Harry, and raised the syringe. He grasped Harry's clothing, and pulled him forwards; then shoving the needle into the side of Harry's neck. He quickly drained the deadly solvent into the older guard. As the needle drained the fluid, Freddie leaned inwards, and whispered into the man's ear.

"If I'm going down, I've got to take someone with me."

Once empty, Freddie pulled the needle from the guard's neck, and released the poisoned man. Harry staggered forwards, and gasped for air. Paul and Dean did not hesitate to fire their weapons. Dean fired his shot into Freddie's already wounded shoulder.

Harry placed a hand on his chest, and the other against his neck. He continued to breathe rapidly. With one leap, Harry forced his body against the rails of the cell, isolating himself from Freddie.

Freddie clutched his shoulder; blood was pouring from the wound. Quick as a flash, Dean fired four shots into Freddie's chest, and Paul fired two into Freddie's head. Freddie collapsed within a millisecond. He fell face first.

There was a brief moment of silence before Paul and Dean aided their comrades. Brutus was first.

Paul grasped Brutus' cheeks, and turned his head towards him. Paul noticed a swollen black eye, and a split lip. Brutus was shaking. He was as white as a ghost.

Paul said to Dean. "Phone the infirmary. Get doctors here right away. Tell them that we have two injured men. Hell, it's a good thing we have them on standby."

Then, Paul heard gurgling noises behind him. He looked behind, discovering Harry's body, crumpled on the laminate flooring. Paul could see from a distance, Harry's chest moving up and down quicker than normal. It looked as if he was struggling to breathe.

Frantic, Paul hurried over to his friend's side. Paul's eyes were as wide as saucers as he examined Harry's situation. Paul stared at Harry's body. He was shaking-too-as he gasped for air. Paul's eyes trailed Harry's face. His eyes were bulging from their sockets as he stared at the ceiling, and he was foaming at the mouth; blood trickled down his chin soon afterwards.

Paul grasped both sides of Harry's face. He was scared. "Harry? Harry?!" Paul placed a hand on Harry's chest, now slowing down considerably. He turned to Dean. "DAMN IT DEAN! We've got to get Harry to a doctor right now! If he doesn't die from the poison, he sure is damn going to die from heart failure!"

The poisoned man gasped for air again. He coughed, and more blood poured from his mouth.

Brutus, still lying on the ground, watched the commotion with horror in his eyes. Brutus shivered. He too was scared. He had never been so scared in his entire life. He watched Paul continue to yell at Dean. They tried to move Harry, but he choked on his own blood and saliva.

It felt like an eternity, but help was quick to arrive. The many doctors quickly rushed to Harry's side, pushing Paul and Dean away from their dear friend. The doctors searched through their medicines, and pulled their needles from their velvet pouches like Freddie's. Paul guessed that their medicines would hopefully counter the drug used on Harry.

Paul and Dean let the professionals work. All they could do at this point was pray. They directed their attention back onto Brutus, who was still lying flat on his stomach, drowning in a pool of his own spit. The two men aided Brutal, helping him rise to his knees; they dragged him towards the nearest wall. Brutus sat against the brick wall with Dean and Paul on either side doing the same. Brutus seemed like he was in a different world, but he was still aware of the events that surrounded him.

Dean said in anger, tears welling up in his eyes. "That man better be dead!"

Paul nodded, "He is."

Brutus said in a weary tone, "Freddie should have taken me."

Paul's ears perked, "What?"

Brutus repeated, "I said that Freddie should have killed me instead of Harry."

Paul couldn't believe what he was hearing. "NO! Harry is not dead! Do not assume that he is dead!"

"Paul!" Brutus exclaimed. "Look at him! He's a dead man. Like you said before, if the poison doesn't kill him, then a heart attack will."-

_WHACK!_

Brutus lightly touched his cheek; which had instantly turned red. Paul had smacked his best friend across the cheek. Brutus was caught by surprise. "Paul," he said.

Paul yelled, "Don't! You dare say that, that man suffering on the ground is going to die! He's been on the mile for over 30 years! Longer than any of us! He's family! And he's not supposed to die here! Brutus you are scared. I KNOW you are scared…well so am I! SO SMARTEN UP!"

Brutus wiped his forehead.

Paul said, "All of you are my family. No one was supposed to get hurt tonight."

Then a doctor wandered over, and examined Brutus. Paul rose to his feet, and sauntered towards Freddie's motionless body. Freddie was spread on his stomach. He was staring into the distance, with massive amounts of blood pouring from every inch of his body; he stained the lime with his blood and presence. Freddie's brains oozed.

Paul knelt to Freddie's level. Fredrick was dead. He died a coward. Paul smacked his lips together, and wiped a lone tear that strolled along his cheek. He spat at the man.

"Damn you," he said, "I hope you go to fucking hell. Guys like you are destined to go there. I sometimes second guess myself when it comes to the doings of the prisoners, but I did not second guess you. No one, but you should have gotten hurt tonight. You were a ticking time bomb. You were humble at first, but then you turned deadly; in the cell and out of the cell. You toyed with us, along with hundreds of others before. Thanks to you, the Green Mile will never be the same. Goodbye Fredrick."

_Goodbye forever._

_Chapter 22 is next... _

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